


If I Die Young

by EliaSawyer



Category: Glee
Genre: Angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2013-09-01
Packaged: 2017-12-08 09:22:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 38
Words: 253,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/759747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EliaSawyer/pseuds/EliaSawyer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Kurt finished up high school, he had plans to finally escape Ohio with Blaine, but when tragedy strikes, both Blaine and Kurt must try to contend with obstacles they never dreamed of encountering</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

"I just need five minutes; a drive around the block even…" Elizabeth Anderson ran a shaky hand through her hair; glancing between the boy in her entryway and the door.

"Elizabeth," her first name still tasted funny on Kurt's tongue; he wondered briefly if he should call her Liz the way her husband does, "Take as much time as you want; we'll be fine."

"I promise no more than twenty minutes then… thank you for coming over, Kurt, it—" She glanced toward the stairway, shaking her head.

He touched a hand to her arm, his voice soft, "You know it's not him."

Liz was still gazing up to the top of the steps, "Sometimes that only breaks my heart more."

He waited for her to go before making his way up the stairs, mentally steeling himself with each step. He took a breath outside the door before knocking, "Blaine?"

He didn't get a response. He wasn't surprised.

He turned the handle slowly—a fair enough warning of his impending entrance as far as he was concerned—"Blaine; it's me."

Blaine had his back to him; his gaze focused somewhere outside the window—probably watching his mother's car pull out of the driveway, "What do you want?"

"What do you mean what do I want?" Kurt tried to keep his voice light; teasing, "I wanted to see you, silly."

"So you coming over had nothing to do with my mom needing to be relieved of babysitting duties a little early today?" Blaine finally turned to face him, an accusatory scowl on his face.

Kurt sat down tentatively on the edge of the unmade bed, "Maybe I wanted to be babysitter for a little while longer today; we're home alone you know."

Blaine's frown only intensified, "And why would I care about that?"

Kurt blushed; It's not him. He wouldn't say that; wouldn't even think that. He swallowed down his chagrin and tried again, "What have you been doing today? Paint me anything pretty?"

"You think you're so fucking funny." Blaine snapped, "Kurt Hummel, wittiest fucking kid on the planet."

Kurt fell silent; his usual antidotes weren't triggering anything. He watched Blaine's thumb twitch against his palm—he'd taken to personifying that tiny flurry of muscle spasms into the essence of everything that had gone wrong—that little dance of movement in his hand was the embodiment of the dark passenger Blaine was carrying around, "Is there anything I can do?"

"Do you have a cure for this in your back pocket?" Blaine lifted the hand Kurt had been watching in front of him.

"I wish I did." Kurt said softly, averting his gaze to Blaine's socked feet.

Blaine didn't come to sit beside him; he offered no apology. He paced; pausing at one end of the room only long enough to look disgruntled before turning and stalking the other direction.

"What's the matter, Blaine?" Kurt folded his legs up onto the bed, wishing Blaine would come to him.

"What's the matter?" Blaine echoed with disgust, "what's the matter is that if the tumor doesn't melt my fucking brain then this house sure as hell will."

"Blaine." Kurt reprimanded him gently, "Don't talk like that."

"Like what? Like I'm losing my fucking mind? Like I don't have control over my own body?" Blaine was shouting.

Just the tumor talking. Kurt reminded himself again when he felt the urge to bolt. Blaine did not yell. Blaine did not verbally abuse the ones he loved. This was not Blaine. His disappearances rarely came with warning—The Tumor made frequent appearances whenever it pleased—screaming at his mother for bringing in laundry; emotionally attacking his boyfriend until he could barely stand to remain in the room; tripping up his feet; halting words somewhere between his brain and his mouth so he was left frustrated and mute. Kurt had kept track of the larger outbursts carefully; making little tick marks on his calender in red pen- the marks were farther apart than they used to be- more and more neat little empty calendar blocks separating them. Progress. Kurt focused on anything that symbolized progress.

Blaine had abruptly left his room; Kurt could hear his footsteps on the stairs. He's walking all right, at least; that's a good thing. That's a the-treatment's-working thing. Kurt reassured himself as he moved toward the door. Walking well or not, Blaine was in a mood and Kurt didn't trust him to be wandering around alone.

He kept his distance as Blaine moved from room to room, pulling open drawers only to slam them back shut, checking end tables and letting out short, disgusted sighs. Kurt followed him quietly, shutting the drawers Blaine forgot to close; righting pictures he tipped over. They wound up in the kitchen; Blaine opened every cabinet door until his eyes lit upon his desired item. He pulled the keys down from the shelf and made for the garage. It was time for Kurt to intervene.

"Nuh-uh; nope." Kurt cut Blaine off quickly, stepping in front of him to block his path toward the door.

"I'm going for a drive." Blaine said resolutely; his tone a flat warning; his eyes practically screaming don't-you-dare-try-to-stop-me.

"No way, Blaine." Kurt mirrored Blaine's movement to keep the exit blocked when he tried to step around him.

"I am not staying in this fucking house for one more goddamn second. I can't breathe." Blaine snapped.

"I know you're sick of being here; if you want, I'll take you for a drive, how about that?" Kurt held out his hand, praying to God or anything that might be out there that Blaine—the real Blaine- would make an appearance and hand over the keys good-naturedly.

But, as luck would have it, he did not drop the keys happily into Kurt's outstretched palm. He made a quick side step around Kurt toward the door.

Kurt caught him by the arm, "Blaine, please be reasonable."

Blaine tried to jerk his arm away, but Kurt only pulled him back closer, "Let go; Kurt, I mean it."

Kurt did not let go; he made a grab for the keys. But then Blaine was trying to twist away and loosing his balance simultaneously. They toppled to the floor. Still, Blaine tried to scramble up and toward the entryway. Kurt pinned him underneath him, hoping the episode would end soon—it was a rarity for them to go on this long.

"Lemme go." He was struggling hard, but his movements were clumsy.

Kurt didn't respond; he pressed his weight down harder. For a little guy, Blaine could be incredibly strong.

"Kurt, fuck," Blaine growled, trying to use a handful of his shirt he's managed to catch a hold of to pull Kurt off of him, or at least throw his balance off enough so he could wriggle out from beneath him.

"You're not fucking driving like this!" Kurt bit out. The shirt would be ruined. He didn't care. He dug an elbow between Blaine's shoulder blades. "Stop fighting me!"

"Stop pinning me to the fucking kitchen floor!" Blaine screamed back, but then he stopped struggling; he groaned.

Kurt let up just a little, his voice soft, "Are you all right?"

Blaine let go of Kurt's shirt to press a palm into his forehead, "Jesus, my head…"

Kurt slipped off of him, still panting from their struggle. He brushed the hair off his forehead and watched Blaine.

Blaine remained where he was; his eyes closed, his hand still pressed against his head. He drew his knees up to his chest.

"Do you want water?" Kurt finally asked softly.

Blaine didn't respond.

Kurt spotted the abandoned keys on the wood floor. He quietly dropped them into his pocket before moving to the sink.

Blaine didn't move from his place on the floor. He raised his other hand to his head; burrowed his fingers in his hair.

Kurt sat back down beside him, his voice gentle, "Sit up."

Blaine remained prone on the floor for another long moment before using a clumsy hand to push himself upright; when his elbow buckled awkwardly, Kurt caught his shoulder gently with his free hand, pushing him up into a sitting position.

He handed over the glass wordlessly.

Blaine took a small sip from the cup, but then sat it back down beside him. He felt sick with the pressure in his head; he closed his eyes, "Thanks."

Kurt couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief. There was Blaine—tired and half-sick with pain, but it was him and that was all that mattered, "Lets get you back up to bed."

"I don't think I can do the stairs right now." Blaine mumbled.

"All right, that's okay," Kurt glanced toward the family room; that wasn't so far, "How about the couch then? Do you want to lie down there?"

Blaine opened his eyes to look at Kurt with something that was akin to sadness and embarrassment.

Kurt didn't make him explain—whether he was too tired, in too much pain, or maybe he just wasn't sure he could get his legs to cooperate, it didn't matter, "We can stay right where we are; come here."

Kurt leaned back against the counter and Blaine scooted in closer to him, dropping his head down in Kurt's lap, curling his knees in close again. Kurt rested an arm on Blaine's waist; Blaine reached up and tangled his fingers between Kurt's, "Thank you."

"Anything for you," Kurt soothed quietly, running his free hand through Blaine's hair. He wasn't always sure if Blaine remembered the episodes or not; if he remembered this one, he said nothing about it. But he seemed sad.

"Kurt?" Blaine's voice was quiet; muffled against his legs.

"Hmm?"

"Like you for always," Kurt could feel the rhythmic dance of Blaine's thumb against his palm.

"Love you forever." Kurt murmured back; squeezing Blaine's hand a little tighter. He listened to Blaine's breathing as it grew more even and then slower with sleep. He closed his own eyes, tipping his head back against the cupboard doors behind him. When had their lives spiraled so far out of orbit? He tried to remember when he should have first noticed something was wrong; when he could have said something; when he could have forced Blaine to a doctor sooner; when he could have done something so things would not have reached this point. He thought back and back and back until he hit the closest approximation of a memory he could come up with. Could have, would have, should have. But he hadn't and he couldn't now. Still, it was a comfort, to remember back when things were simple. When he and Blaine had cared for nothing more than music and dreams of New York and kisses in the backseat of a car with fogged over windows. When they had still been young and invincible.


	2. Chapter 1

The moment he was through the door, Blaine was singing. Of  _course_  Blaine was singing.

"Blaine, I mean this in the nicest, most loving way possible," Kurt glanced up from his flashcards, "Shut. Up."

Blaine broke his song off mid-line, glancing around at the other occupants of the room. Other than Finn, who just looked confused, they all glared back at him. He held up both hands in surrender, "Sorry, didn't know music could piss off so many glee club members."

"Music does not piss us off," Lauren glared at him, an open History book in her lap, " _Your_  music when  _we_ 're studying, pisses us off. So if you want that fancy Dalton blazer to remain in one piece, you best be picking up a book and shutting your mouth before I shut it for you."

"That's an awful thing to say." Blaine looked to Kurt in shock. Kurt shrugged and turned his attention back to his flashcards.

Blaine glanced around the room one more time before settling himself in beside Kurt on the bed. He pulled a physics book out and flipped open to a page. He glanced over it but quickly lost interest. He flipped through a few more pages before glancing up; everyone had managed to refocus after his interruption. Well, Puck was staring at Lauren's chest, but the others had refocused—even Finn was doing his best to study; holding a math book out in front of him with a frown, tilting it from side to side as he tried to discern the meaning in the content of the pages.

Finally he turned his attention to Kurt. He was leaned against the wall, his eyes closed and his lips silently mouthing the answer to the card that currently had the good fortune to be resting on his lap. Blaine plucked it off his legs and flipped it over to read it.

When Kurt snatched it back, Blaine only grinned, holding up his physics book in hopes that Kurt would be a little happier if he saw they were studying the same thing.

To Blaine's delight, a smile graced Kurt's face. He split the pile of cards and handed half to Blaine.

Blaine shuffled through them, pausing only briefly on each one before dropping it down beside him.

Kurt scowled at him; he was only four deep into his own stack of cards. He glanced around the room before whispering, "You are  _not_  done with those already."

"Try me." Blaine grinned, sliding the pile toward Kurt.

Rachel threw them a sharp look.

Kurt pulled out a notebook and dropped it into Blaine's lap. He held up the first flashcard, quirking an eyebrow.

Blaine scribbled down the answer.

Kurt glanced down at it, rolled his eyes, and dropped the card down to flash another.

Blaine scrawled out a quick diagram and held it up for Kurt to see with a grin.

Kurt tried again and again, growing increasingly irritated as Blaine filled up the page with his blocky script. When Blaine had to look up toward the ceiling, his features thoughtful, Kurt thought he finally had him—nope; he'd just needed a moment to do the math in his head.

Kurt threw the whole pile on the floor; startling Puck from whatever daydream he had succumbed to—his eyes still carefully trained on Lauren, but now he was caught. She cracked him over the head with her textbook, "Study Spanish not my breasts!"

"Ow, Jesus!" Puck rubbed his head and glowered at Kurt, "It's his fault; he distracted me."

"It's his fault." Kurt quipped coolly, pointing at Blaine.

"Me?" Blaine held up both hands when Lauren's icy glare turned toward him, "I didn't even do anything this time! I was studying!"

"You were being cheeky." Kurt sniffed.

"I was not, you told me to answer your stupid flash card, so I did." Blaine cried out indignantly.

"Hey guys, as long as we're like talking and stuff now, I have a question. What's a rad—a ray—a… it's like radius, but it's a different word." Finn turned his math book around for them to see, pointing to the word.

"Radii. It's the same thing as radius but there's more than one." Blaine supplied, pointing at the circle diagrams on the bottom of the page, "See?"

"You're doing it again." Kurt grumbled.

"Doing what?" Blaine looked around at the others, "Will someone please tell me what I did?"

Finn shrugged helplessly, "He just gets pissy sometimes; I don't think you did anything, man."

Blaine smiled graciously, "Thank you, Finn. See, Kurt, I didn't do anything."

"Really, you're going to use a guy who thought pi was a food example in his math book up until five minutes ago as your source for credibility?" Kurt quirked an eyebrow at Blaine.

"Hey! Woah! Easy, I'm just trying to be nice to your boyfriend!" Finn looked to Rachel for support.

"He's right, Kurt; you're being bitchy," Rachel patted Finn's knee from where she sat on the floor, "Be nice."

"I am being nice; I let you all swarm my bedroom like it was your own personal study lounge, didn't I?" Kurt inspected his fingernails.

Lauren and Puck were engaged in an argument regarding which head Puck actually thought with.

Rachel listened to them for a moment before jumping to her feet and clapping her hands together, "Okay, safe to say study party's over for now!"

Lauren paused momentarily in her verbal abuse to glance at Rachel, "Who says it's over?"

"Me; As pleasant as I find the banter and bizarre group dynamic, I've had enough for one day," Kurt waved a hand toward the door, "Out. Now."

Puck complied quickly, shoving his things in his bag and mumbling a quick 'call-you-later' to Finn. He had hoped to escape Lauren's wrath, but she was following him down the stairs, her tirade audible up until the front door slammed shut behind them.

"Finn, let's go get a snack in the kitchen." Rachel suggested, neatly stacking her books on Finn's lap.

Finn's entire demeanor brightened. The offer of both an end to studying and the incentive of food was enticing enough that he didn't even bother throwing her an irritated frown for assuming he would be carrying her books.

Rachel clicked the door shut behind them, but not before pausing to smile back at the rooms two remaining occupants, "Make good choices!"

Blaine blinked after her before turning his attention to Kurt, "Thanks for throwing me under the bus with Lauren. I think she hates me."

"She doesn't hate you; threats of physical harm and glaring are practically her way of welcoming you into the group." Kurt waved a dismissive hand, already turning his attention back to his physics notes.

"Any reason you're being more of a diva than Mariah Carrey this afternoon?" Blaine rifled through the pile of papers beside Kurt.

"If I have to study for one more test, I am going to tear out my hair." Kurt replied; he glanced at Blaine out of the corner of his eye, "Don't you dare even think about throwing those notes; I will not think it's in the least bit cute, and I have them in a certain order."

Blaine quickly replaced the stack beside Kurt, opting not to mention he had indeed messed with the ordering of the pages, "But you love your hair."

"So you should understand my level of frustration." Kurt replied; distracted as he thumbed through his textbook.

"If you rip out your hair you'll still have to study," Blaine leaned back against the wall to watch Kurt, "And you'll be bald."

"Bite me." Kurt snapped.

With the mood Kurt was in, he really shouldn't have done it, but Blaine couldn't help himself. He spotted the exposed patch of skin between his neck and shoulder—it was practically marked with a big red X; begging for him to do it—he leaned forward and nipped him quickly.

Kurt jumped; his face momentarily startled as he twisted sideways to look at Blaine. His expression quickly moved from shocked to irritated, "Seriously? You went there?"

Blaine had retreated quickly to the head of the bed, knowing his little bite would be greeted with fury and possibly a textbook aimed at his head. He smiled, "Just trying to alleviate some stress—your neck is really tense by the way."

"I'm aware," Kurt rolled his eyes, "I want to be able to spend time with you, Blaine, but I don't have your photographic memory skills so please distract yourself with something other than me for a few minutes—I really need to get this done."

"Okay, okay." Blaine conceded; Kurt's bitchiness was endearing, but he didn't want bitchiness to turn to full-fledged pissed off. He rifled through his bag until he found his laptop. English papers weren't helped much by a good memory and he had been putting it off for a week. He settled himself back against the headboard to write.

After nearly an hour of total silence, Kurt was feeling better. He glanced at Blaine—his hands still resting on the keyboard, his head tipped back against the headboard and his eyes closed. Kurt felt a little guilty about being so harsh with him. He turned his attention to Blaine's feet draped across his lap—a small breech in space during their study time that Kurt had allowed. He moved his textbook off of Blaine's shins; squeezed his foot, "Are you asleep or are you deep in thought?"

Blaine opened his eyes and smiled at him lazily, "Neither; headache."

"I told you your computer screen was too bright." Kurt pushed Blaine's feet off his lap and crawled up to join him at the head of the bed, "You're straining your eyes."

"I turned it down!" Blaine protested.

"Maybe it's the strain of actually having to apply yourself," Kurt snuggled himself into Blaine's side and turned the computer screen so he could see what Blaine had accomplished with his paper, "Challenging, isn't it?"

"Terrible," Blaine agreed. He slipped an arm around Kurt; rubbed circles in his neck.

Kurt moaned, "Oh God, you have no idea how good that feels."

"I think I've got a decent idea," Blaine smiled; he slipped his fingers under the collar of Kurt's shirt, "Seriously, you need to relax a little—your whole neck is a knotted mess."

"Mmm," Kurt sighed, tipped his chin down so Blaine could reach more of his tense muscles, "or I could keep working hard just so I can have you do this."

Blaine pushed Kurt up and shifted himself until he was sitting behind him, "I'd do it anyway if you'd give up the studying."

"One more week and it won't be an issue," Kurt's voice was almost slurred.

" _Two_  weeks until I'm done." Blaine grumbled; he worked his way down Kurt's back, following the soft line of his spine.

"You don't have to slave away at studying though," Kurt replied, leaning back into the pressure of Blaine's hands until his head was resting on his shoulder; he smiled up at him, "And if you do, I promise to come over everyday and endlessly harass you."

"I look forward to it," Blaine had reached the base of his spine; he traced the edge of Kurt's hips and pressed his fingers into his abdomen gently when his hands had found their way to Kurt's front, "Only if you can promise lots and lots of study breaks, though."

Oh. Kurt knew where that tone of voice led. When he pressed his mouth to Blaine's neck, Blaine was already unbuttoning Kurt's jeans.

"Hey, I think I left my—" Finn was through the door faster than either of the room's other occupants could even register the turn of the knob, "Oh! Jeez, sorry—I – um, sorry, sorry; sorry!"

Kurt moved away from Blaine so quickly he nearly fell off the bed, "Finn! Knock!"

"Right, sorry- I, um—" Finn stumbled backwards, bumped into the doorframe, and then the door was slamming behind him.

"Oops." Blaine shrugged, apparently unfettered by the interruption. He glanced down to the floor where Finn's forgotten textbook was residing, "Should we bring it down to him?"

Kurt rebuttoned his jeans, "Give it a few minutes for the awkwardness to wear off."

"I'm not sure this is even awkward anymore," Blaine smiled, "that's the third time he's walked in on us."

"Fourth," Kurt corrected, "last week; remember?"

"That was technically our fault," Blaine shrugged.

Kurt slipped off the bed to retrieve the book, "I guess you're right… and it's not like he's really seen anything terrible."

"Terrible?" Blaine dropped his legs down off the edge of the bed, "That's not exactly the vocab I would choose to describe us."

"Oh?" Kurt quirked an eyebrow; he cradled the book in his arms, but remained where he was, "what words would you choose then?"

Blaine smirked, "Sexy, steamy, hot, kinky on occasion—"

Kurt caught his elbow when he stumbled, "Clumsy?"

Blaine looked startled; he had planned on making his way over to Kurt and pulling him back to the bed. Instead, the moment he'd pushed himself up off the bed, he'd tripped. He used Kurt's shoulder to find his balance; keeping his weight off his left foot. He laughed, "My foot's asleep."

"I can see that." Kurt smiled a little; keeping a hand on Blaine's arm to ensure he remained standing, "Why don't you sit down for a minute and give it a chance to get some blood flowing."

Blaine obediently sat back down on the end of the bed. He tapped his heel into the carpet a few times, "I didn't even realize it was asleep."

"You were distracted," Kurt replied with a wink. He retrieved the book he'd dropped to catch a hold of Blaine.

"So this is your fault." Blaine raised an eyebrow.

"No, I can't be blamed for you having such a one track mind," Kurt waved the book in front of him, "Think you can manage going downstairs to return this thing?"

Blaine used his leg to snag Kurt around the waist and pull him close to the end of the bed, "Maybe."

Kurt leaned in; kissed him once and pivoted on his heel toward the door, "A worthy attempt, Mr. Anderson, but  _I_  have the ability to keep my wits about me."

"We'll see about that," Blaine smirked, "Give me some time; I am going to figure something out and then we'll see who has the one track mind."

"Good luck with that," Kurt opted to keep it to himself that almost anything and everything Blaine did could distract him from even the most consuming task. He'd simply perfected the art of escaping the situation before his will power was completely lost. Blaine might be sexy; alluring… okay, so he was positively desirable in every way, but Kurt was determined to win out. He couldn't help it if his competitive side was teasing Blaine's sexual frustrations, "You're doing great so far; tripping over your own feet is a huge turn on."

Blaine pushed himself awkwardly off the bed; tested his weight on both feet; he grinned triumphantly at Kurt and bounced on his toes a few times in show.

"Bravo, you've out maneuvered even the most graceful of infants." Kurt turned toward the door but only to turn right back around when he heard an awkward thump.

Blaine looked up at him helplessly from where he sat on the floor, "it's asleep again."

"It was fine five seconds ago," Kurt crossed the room to frown down at him.

"Well, now it's not," Blaine grimaced; held out a hand, "help me up?"

Kurt held out his free hand, "That seems kind of strange, Blaine; you were just standing up fine and then—"

Kurt let out a shriek when Blaine pulled him down on top of him, but the sound was muffled by Blaine's mouth.

Kurt tried to pull away from the kiss, "Oh, you lying little—"

Blaine pressed his mouth back against Kurt's; rolled him until he was trapped between Blaine's body and the carpet.

Pinned underneath him that way, Kurt had no hope for escape. He tried half heartedly to smack Blaine over the back with the textbook he was still clinging to, but it was no use. Blaine caught his wrist; held it to the floor.

He trailed kisses up his jaw and bit the edge of Kurt's ear. When Kurt moaned, he laughed quietly into his ear, "I win."

"You do not," Kurt tried to protest; he raised his free hand to push at Blaine's shoulder.

Blaine pinned his other wrist to the floor just as easily as he had the first; traced the edge of his ear with his tongue, "You sure about that?"

"Blaine, we need to—I have to—" Kurt couldn't keep his thoughts straight. What had he been doing before he was pinned to the floor of his own bedroom? Why the hell did he care?

"Yes?" Blaine's breath was hot against the side of his face.

"Um…" Kurt struggled to cling to a thought that didn't involve Blaine, "Nothing."

Suddenly Blaine was up on his feet, striding toward the door, "Oh that's right, you wanted to return Finn's book to him."

Kurt blinked a few times, glowering and blushing and trying to reorient himself, "You are a terrible, deceitful human being, you know that?"

"I've been called worse," Blaine offered a hand.

Kurt glared at his palm, "If you ever fall down the stairs and break your neck or something I will not believe for one second you're hurt."

"Not my fault that I'm a brilliant actor and lover," Blaine smiled, "Come on; you don't want Finn to have too much time to think about this, do you?"

Kurt remained on the floor for another minute before begrudgingly taking Blaine's hand and pulling himself up and following him to the door.

"Hey, what was it you were saying about being able to keep your wits about you?" Blaine turned to smile at him innocently.

"Oh, you—" Kurt made to throw Finn's book at the other boy, but he was already gone down the steps. Kurt followed in quick pursuit, but nearly collided with Blaine on the first landing.

"I surrender," Blaine raised both hands in defeat.

"For such a dainty little thing, you sure are slow on your feet," Kurt replied coolly.

"I am not dainty and I am not slow; I tripped and if I remember correctly, if I fall and break something I'm just going to be left for dead, so I opted to surrender." Blaine shrugged.

"Hmm, so you're my prisoner now," Kurt smiled; drummed his fingers on the cover of the textbook, "what to do; what to do?"

"Would you mind sparing your prisoner some Advil?" Blaine smiled grimly, "My head is killing me."

Kurt caught Blaine's hand in his free one to drag him toward the kitchen, "You're lucky I'm nice."

"You're so very, very nice." Blaine stopped abruptly and twisted Kurt around to kiss him, "I would not want to be any one else's prisoner except yours."

Kurt let go of the book to wrap his hand around Blaine's neck… what was it they were supposed to be doing again?


	3. Chapter 2

This was it. The last day of high school.

Kurt crossed the day off with a thick, black X before shoving the calendar into his bag. Eight more hours and he would be free of McKinley and all the ignorant, simple-minded low lives that inhabited it.

He smiled up at the picture of Blaine—his junior year photo had long since been replaced by one of his senior portraits along with a collection of photos of the two of them. Carefully, he peeled each one down and tucked it into his messenger bag until all that was left was the courage clipping. He stared up at it. He would never have cut apart one of his precious copies of  _Vogue_. But those letters had come from a magazine that meant something to him, too.

* * *

_No sooner had Kurt agreed to Blaine buying him lunch than he started to panic. He barely knew Blaine; their interactions were confined to a quick coffee confessional at Dalton when he had been caught spying and the Karofsky Confrontation only a few minutes earlier. And Shit, everything they'd ever discussed was about Kurt and his school troubles and that was sort of embarrassing and ohmigod, Blaine must think he was the most pathetic human being to walk the earth, and what the hell was Kurt supposed to say to this confident, suave I-just-walked-out-of-a-Ralph-Lauren-ad guy anyway?_

_While Kurt panicked that the only intelligent thing to come out of his mouth would be his lunch order, Blaine was all smiles. He studied Kurt silently for a long moment before leaning over to dig through his bag on the floor. When he straightened back up, he dropped something down on the table between them._

_Kurt startled out of his nervous reverie to stare down at what Blaine had produced from his bag._

_"I love trashy gossip magazines," Blaine shrugged and smiled ruefully, "Guilty pleasure."_

_And just like that the tension melted from Kurt's shoulders— he laughed and scoffed over the stories with Blaine; blushed when he critiqued outfits and Blaine's gaze was completely on him. He did not think about Karofsky even once. His fear of thirty agonizingly awkward minutes was quickly replaced by shock when he glanced at his phone and realized that not only was his half hour for lunch long over, but he'd missed fourth period, too._

_Blaine shoved the magazine toward his side of the table as they got up to leave and flashed him another smile, "Keep it; I have way too many for my own good; it's getting embarrassing."_

_Kurt chose the letters carefully—the 'C' from a_ Covergirl _ad Blaine had admired the model's eyes in and pointed out they matched Kurt's, the 'O' from a_ Lancôme _ad that had sparked a long conversation about how they were glad to not have to deal with eye makeup the way girls did. Each letter held the memory of a conversation; a look; he couldn't even remember what they were discussing when Blaine's hand brushed his but he remembered seeing that 'R' on the page…_

_When he taped it to the inside of his locker door, he paused and relived the whole thing. He felt a sort of giddiness recalling Blaine's eyes on him; the way he laughed at his jokes and tilted his head to listen to Kurt talk... And suddenly Kurt was careening into his open locker door and he was reminded that Blaine was at Dalton and he was still at McKinley and Karofsky still hated him, but still… still he felt a little comfort looking up to that collage; a tingle of butterflies in his stomach when he glanced at Blaine's picture._

* * *

He began to peel off the little 'C' but then hesitated. Locker clean out didn't officially have to be finished until fifth period… he pressed the C back into place, pulled out his favorite picture of him and Blaine and replaced it before clicking the locker shut. He had barely taken a step when he felt a jolt of pain as he crashed into the locker banks—his shoulder made the same sound as his slamming locker door when it made contact with the metal. He looked up in time to see the back of three letterman jackets; he could hear the laughter all the way down the hall.

"Sorry about them," a voice mumbled as it passed. Karofsky.

"Not sorry enough to say anything though," Kurt called after him.

Karofsky glanced over his shoulder. Kurt did not miss the conflicted guilt on his face before he rounded the corner.

He sighed and hurried toward his first class—the halls were near empty and he had no interest in staying after school for being late. He slipped into his seat beside Rachel just as the bell rang.

She squeezed his arm, "Last day!"

He flinched and shied out of her grasp, "I'm aware."

"Are you okay?" Rachel frowned at him, "I thought you of all people would at least be a little excited—everyone else is a mess."

"I  _am_  excited— I just got a last goodbye shove into the lockers from the hockey team, though, so I don't really appreciate you trying to rip my arm out of its socket."

"Sorry," Rachel patted the aforementioned spot on his arm gently, "they're just depressed and angry because all that awaits them after this are night shifts at the gas station and beer guts. We, however, are moving on up. Are we still on for internet apartment hunting tonight?"

Kurt couldn't suppress his smile, "Of course we are—Blaine's parents told us we're going to die when we see the price of rent though."

"Parents always think we're going to be shocked by everything 'real world' related; I'm sure it's not going to be that bad," Rachel waved away Kurt's concerns with a quick flick of her wrist.

The hours passed at a painfully slow rate and things felt disturbingly… normal. Kurt ate lunch with Mercedes and Tina, whizzed through his French final, doodled Blaine's name on his notebook during Precalculus, and ducked into the girls' bathroom to avoid any passing athletes. The only notable difference was a certain tension in the air that increased with each passing hour. When he sat down next to Rachel yet again in their final class, the excitement was almost tangible. Every set of eyes was glued to the clock above the door. Despite their banter and the fact that he found Rachel only tolerable based on her decent taste in future living plans, music, and men, Kurt clung to her hand as they watched the final minutes tick by. When the bell rang, she nearly broke his hand in her grip.

She threw her arms around him; kissed his cheek, "We're done! Kurt, we're done!"

He had no bitchy comments or snarky retorts. He laughed with her and returned both the hug and the kiss.

They sought out their friends as they made their way toward the parking lot—Mercedes, Tina, and Puck joined in their celebration; Quinn was stoic; her arms crossed tightly across her chest and her expression unreadable.

"I'm never going back there again," Tina sighed blissfully.

"Yes you are; commencement is on Sunday," Kurt replied mildly, but the thought didn't bother him—once they handed him that stupid diploma he was out of there for good.

"I'm going to go back someday to mentor future stars," Rachel linked her hand around Kurt's arm and tipped her head against his shoulder to smile up at him, "Want to come?"

"I'll check my schedule," Kurt smiled for her, but turned his attention to Quinn who had yet to utter a single syllable since the final bell had sounded the end of their high school days. He slipped his hand into hers, "are you going to be coaching future prom queens?"

"Wouldn't that job be more appropriate for you?" Quinn replied quietly.

"Oh  _please_ , they will never get another Kurt Hummel through here, but there will be plenty of Quinn Fabray wannabes; they will clamor for either your wisdom or your diet techniques. Probably both." He squeezed her hand once, "Or maybe they'll just have to get by on their own."

"Why's that?" Quinn looked away, but Kurt caught the sheen of tears over her eyes.

"Because Quinn Fabray will be too busy with much bigger things than the prom queens and homecoming courts of McKinley High School," Kurt had no idea if Quinn would be trapped in Lima forever or if she would break free, but he had to offer something. He couldn't help but like Quinn—they shared a similar disdain for Rachel's quirks and she really was the prettiest girl Kurt had ever seen. And seeing the loneliness already taking over her eyes; he felt for her—he knew what it was to feel like everyday was going to be a chore; a punishment for the crime of simply being who you are. His hell was over; hers had just begun.

She looked back at him; smiled, "Thank you, Kurt."

He returned the smile before releasing her hand and climbing into Rachel's car, "Drive. Fast."

Rachel was more than happy to comply. She turned on her radio and nearly ran over Jacob Ben Israel as she sped out of the lot, leaving McKinley behind them as fast as they could. She turned to Kurt and grinned, "The fun can finally begin!"

* * *

"Oh. My. God." Kurt stared wide-eyed at the computer screen.

"It's… it's just a little road bump; we'll figure it out." Rachel bit her lip as she scrolled through the apartment listings.

"I knew rent was going to be awful, but this is just ridiculous," Kurt sighed, propping his chin in his hands.

Rachel was quiet for a moment; she twisted a piece of her comforter between her fingers, "We'll just have to come up with ways to make money… maybe you could sell some of your clothes."

"Or maybe you could just sell your body on the corner—it's less valuable than my wardrobe and the apartment would be quiet from time to time." Kurt replied coolly.

Rachel smacked him hard across the arm, "Kurt!"

"Sorry," Kurt smiled apologetically, "Blaine's rubbing off on me—I open my mouth before I can think about what I'm saying."

"He would never even think to say something like that, would you, Blaine?" Rachel twisted around to smile at Blaine where he was leaned against her headboard; a textbook open across his knees.

"Hmm?" Blaine blinked at her; clearly not in tune with the conversation.

"Where are you tonight?" Kurt nudged Blaine's hip with his foot, "You've barely said a word."

"While you two are in the blissful throws of summer and future living plans, I'm still finishing high school in case you've forgotten." Blaine motioned a hand at the textbook in his lap.

"You don't even need to study," Kurt retorted.

"When it comes to calculus, yes I do." Blaine frowned down at the book in his lap begrudgingly.

"Want me to quiz you on something?" Kurt crawled up beside Blaine to peer down into his open notebook, "Or maybe provide a lesson in decent penmanship? Yours is looking particularly horrendous today."

"My hand is going to fall off if I write one more word this week," Blaine lifted his notebook to study his handwriting, "and I write wherever it fits on the paper when I do math; excuse my lack of attention to how pretty my scratch paper looks."

Kurt pulled the notebook from Blaine's hand to twist sideways, he tilted his head the other direction, "A little sloppiness I understand, but this is just silly; how do you even follow it?"

Blaine shrugged, "I just do. Can I have that back now?"

Kurt couldn't suppress his smirk, "Now who's the snippety one in the relationship?"

"Please don't tease me right now; I'm exhausted and dangerously close to giving up on my academic career right here and now," Blaine rubbed a hand across his eyes.

"First off, you'll be done in a week, and, second, I think you're being a baby about all of this just to get some sympathy cuddling." Kurt rolled his eyes.

"Cuddling wouldn't hurt," Blaine pouted, folding his arms across his chest.

Before Kurt could react, Rachel climbed up to the head of the bed and pulled Blaine into a hug, "Poor Blaine. You work so hard at Dalton and now you have to sit here and study while we have fun."

Blaine threw Kurt a smug smirk, "Thanks, Rachel."

"Oh, God," Kurt gave the pair his most disdainful look, "Excuse me while I go throw up."

Despite Blaine abruptly ending their short-lived love affair the previous year, Rachel worshipped Blaine—Kurt was more than a little irritated when he called Blaine to ask him out to coffee from time to time only to find out he'd already gone earlier that day with Rachel. What was even worse than Rachel's adoration of his boyfriend was that Blaine loved Rachel, too. The only things that made the relationship bearable for Kurt was that Blaine was still willing to giggle with him over some of Rachel's more Rachel-esque moments and the fact that he really did love them both dearly. Just not when they were being horrendously obnoxious.

"Kurt," Rachel frowned at him; her arms still wrapped around Blaine's middle, "have some sympathy for your boyfriend."

"He has been promised a study partner, coffee date, a get out of jail free card for having to suffer through our commencement ceremony, and endless candy for all of next week; I am being plenty gracious with him." Kurt gave Blaine a pointed glare.

"That doesn't mean it's not necessary to love on him from time to time," Rachel smiled at Blaine, "And who wouldn't want to love on someone this adorably charming?"

"You hear that?" Blaine threw Kurt another smug smile, "She thinks I'm charming."

"I cannot wait until you two are living under the same roof and actually have to spend twenty four hours a day with one another. We'll see how much you love each other then." Kurt inspected his fingernails; he opted to ignore Blaine's snide remarks.

"As long as we never have to compete for a role, we'll be just fine," Rachel gave Blaine one last quick squeeze before moving back to her laptop.

Blaine scooted in closer to Kurt; tipped his head onto his shoulder to whisper in his ear, "You'll always be my favorite roommate."

Kurt couldn't resist the smile that pulled at the corners of his mouth. As much as he hated to admit it, Rachel was right; Blaine was  _endlessly_  charming. When he was sure Rachel's eyes were fully focused on her computer screen, he pressed a quick kiss to Blaine's mouth.

Blaine smiled; surprised and pleased by the sudden contact; he laced his fingers between Kurt's, "Love you."

Kurt opened his mouth to respond, but Rachel beat him to it, "Love you, too!"

Kurt and Blaine exchanged a silent look before Blaine pulled his book back onto his lap; his other hand still entwined with Kurt's.

Kurt nuzzled his cheek down against Blaine's shoulder and enjoyed the feeling of his boyfriend's warm, dry hand in his own. He was finished with high school. He was running away to New York. He was on the other side of the dark valley of his life—a notion that, at times, had made him so giddy he could hardly suppress a squeal or dancing around his bedroom at just the thought. But now, he was happy to just sit quietly. He decided not to let the stress of apartment prices taint his final day of high school. Instead, he immersed himself in dreams of the city, of his name in lights, of walking hand in hand down the street with the man he loved without receiving so much as a second glance from those that passed them. He was so content in his daydreaming that the world around him was a dull haze—Rachel's voice just a quiet buzzing and the occasional twitch of Blaine's thumb against his went completely unnoticed.


	4. Chapter 3

"I give up; there is no way to make these things look attractive," Kurt tilted his head from side to side in front of his hand mirror. He held an aerosol can a few inches out from his hair and immersed himself in a thick cloud of hairspray.

Puck coughed, choking on the lingering fumes as he passed, "Dude, you're going to kill everyone in here with that stuff, lay off."

Kurt ignored Puck and handed off the bottle and mirror to Santana before moving over to Tina. He slapped her hands away from her hair and adjusted a bobby pin, "Excited for the  _actual_  final time you'll ever have to walk through McKinley?"

"You have no idea," Tina glowered over his shoulder at a few of their classmates wrestling one another to the floor, "Aren't you?"

Kurt gazed around the hallway he and his fellow seniors were occupying, "I'm going to miss Glee club."

Tina's smile slipped a little as she, too, looked around and picked out the other members of New Direction in their various states of disarray, "Me, too… but a lot of them won't go too far; it's not like we're all moving to opposite ends of the country."

Kurt watched Brittany help Artie with his gown; studied Puck trying to bribe a classmate into giving him her high honors stole; he even took a moment to smile when Sam stole a quick kiss from Mercedes, "They're not leaving, but I am."

Tina squeezed his had, "We'll have reunions and we still have all summer before you guys move. Come on, you were more ready to be out of here than anyone, don't start getting sentimental now."

"I'm not, I'm not!" Kurt lifted both hands defensively, "Trust me, there are some people here that if I were to move to another planet I would still feel too close to them."

"Guess who," A warm hand covered his eyes.

"Blaine, what are you doing here?" Kurt pushed the hand off his face and twisted around to face his boyfriend.

Blaine pouted, "How'd you know it was me?"

"You'd be less identifiable if you ever deviated your cologne selection from Lacoste Essential," Kurt looked him over— a white polo and khakis; the contrast of his light clothes and dark hair made him look devastatingly attractive, "And you still haven't answered my question; I gave you a free pass on this thing."

"You thought I'd honestly skip out on your graduation?" Blaine grinned, "Not a chance."

"You're going to die of boredom," Kurt folded his arms across his chest but couldn't help but feel pleased at Blaine's spontaneous appearance. He was more than aware of the glances some of the girls were sending their way.

"I was looking forward to Kurt Hummel's graduation ensemble," Blaine looked over Kurt's plain red robe and flicked his fingers through the tassel hanging in front of Kurt's face, "I thought you would at least try to bedazzle the top of your hat or something for the occasion."

Kurt gave the surrounding sea of identical red robes a sour look. It really was awful to have to look the same as all of his peers on his final day at McKinley. He'd made his mark by standing out and now he looked the exact same as all of them. He batted Blaine's hand away but sighed, "You know me too well; I  _did_  try to bedazzle it, but Figgins just gave me a new one; he said something about graduating class unison."

"Well then, maybe you'll appreciate this," Blaine reached into his pocket and held out a little wrapped box.

"What is it?" Kurt turned it over in his hands a few times, eyeing the shoddy wrapping job.

"Something to make you stand out a little," Blaine smiled; shrugged.

Kurt peeled back the paper and abandoned it to the floor. He opened the box ready to make a joke about a marriage proposal, but he stopped himself.

"Do you like it?" Blaine shifted from foot to foot; suddenly nervous.

Kurt pulled the pin from the box to inspect more closely. It was a rose gold feather- delicate and only about two inches long. It wouldn't catch someone's eye immediately the way some of his gaudier accessories might, but it would definitely inspire a double take, "I absolutely love it. Where'd you get it?"

Blaine smiled; sheepish, "One of my aunt's has had this artist out in Oregon make a few pieces for her—I sent her a sketch a few months ago. I wanted to give it to you for our one year, but it came late, so I thought today would be a good day to give it to you."

Kurt felt happy tears sting his eyes, "How'd I end up with the best boyfriend in the world?"

"All the good guys are gay; the odds were in your favor," Santana called as she passed.

"I still feel pretty damn lucky," Kurt smiled and looked back down at Blaine's gift, "Now I have to come up with something amazing to give  _you_  for graduation."

Blaine took the pin from him and worked at undoing the clasp, "Don't; you've given me plenty."

"Screw love and devotion—those are built-ins to the relationship; I'm going to come up with the most wonderful material possession I can possibly give you." Kurt tilted his head; thoughtful.

"I'm sure you could come up with something a lot more creative than a feather pin, but you really, really don't have to." Blaine was scowling down at the pin as he continued to fumble with the clasp.

"I want to," Kurt took the pin from between Blaine's fingers and opened it in one deft movement. He pinned it on his robes and smiled at Blaine, "There; right above my heart."

Blaine pulled him into a hug, "Congratulations, Kurt."

"I survived." Kurt laughed; lifting one hand to hold his hat in place.

"You did more than survive; you conquered this place," Blaine pulled out of the hug, but squeezed his shoulders, "Don't let anybody tell you different."

Kurt smoothed Blaine's collar with a thumb, "You could get in trouble for being back here you know."

"I won't tell if you won't," Blaine winked.

"Deal," Kurt smiled, "But you really should be getting back out there; you might be able to get a seat with my parents."

Blaine glanced over his shoulder toward the doors to the gym, "Rachel's dads probably wouldn't mind plowing a few people over in the front row for me either- I saw them on my way in- they brought like an entire recording and movie studio for this thing... I'll see you soon. Don't trip on your way up to the podium."

"Save that advice for yourself," Kurt shoved him playfully, "Get out of here."

Blaine twisted around to flash him one last smile before disappearing into the gym with a few straggling parents.

Kurt traced a finger over the pin and smiled at the space he'd last seen Blaine.

His view was obscured by a pack of (former) football players, "What a dream come true, Hummel; a bunch of dudes in dresses."

"As alluring as I'm sure you feel in drag, I'll pass on the has-been athletes; thanks," Kurt glanced around.

"Watch who you're calling a has-been, Hummel, I'm going to be on the college team." Azimio took a threatening step toward him.

"I don't think taking a couple make up classes to boost your GPA down at the community college and playing for the park and rec team make you qualify as a 'college football player," Kurt looked him over disdainfully, "Mind backing off a little? You smell horrendous and I feel like if you're within a fifteen foot radius it's going to rub off on me."

"Is this too close for you, Lady?" Azimio grabbed a handful of Kurt's robes and jerked him forward.

"Lay off."

Kurt looked to Karofsky in surprise. His robe was a little too short and his hat was on at a rakish angle. He looked tired.

"Is that dress going to your head, Dave?" Azimio turned to look Karofsky over, "Are you siding with the homo?"

"I just want this to be over with as fast as possible so we can go; I don't want Figgins making us stay longer for giving him shit." Karofsky motioned a hand at Kurt; he didn't look at him.

Azimio held onto Kurt for a few more seconds before shoving him backward. He adjusted his robe up higher on his shoulders and looked back to Kurt; his expression disgusted, "I guess you're right. Stupid lady boy isn't worth my sweet party time anyway."

The boys moved away from Kurt, but a few couldn't resist shouldering him as they passed.

David remained where he was; watching the others with a glum face. Kurt studied his profile, "For you, that was a decent attempt at civility."

Karofsky didn't look at him; he followed after the others, but remained a few steps behind the pack.

"Karofsky?" Kurt called just loud enough to be heard.

Karofsky paused and turned to look at him.

"High school's over, David." Kurt tried to smile for him just a little.

Karofsky studied him in silence. He nodded his head once and turned to catch up with the others.

Finn looked from Karofsky to Kurt as he passed the former jocks. He frowned, "Are they giving you trouble?"

"No more than usual," Kurt smiled grimly, but caught Finn by the arm when he wheeled around to chase after the boys, "Don't waste your time; they're depressed and needed somewhere to put their feelings."

Finn stared down the hall but reluctantly turned back toward Kurt, "They're lining us up to go in. You ready?"

"I have been ready for this since the first day of second grade." Kurt smiled and followed Finn to find their place in with the others already filing up in front of the doors. Rachel stepped out of the line to look over her fellow glee club members solemnly.

"This is our last performance for McKinley—"

The others let out a cheer that drowned out her voice.

Finn didn't cheer; he looked them over sadly, "this is our last performance together as a team, you guys."

The group quieted. Despite her previous reassurances to Kurt, Tina leaned into Mike's side with a solemn expression.

"I didn't mean to make everyone depressed." Finn looked to Kurt for back up, but he only shrugged; he'd already been through the emotional wringer of having to leave his friends behind; he had little comfort to offer.

"Some of us will go away," Rachel said quietly; glancing toward Kurt, "But we've been through too much together to just fall apart after this. We're a family. We'll always be here to support each other and offer each other a shoulder to lean on. This isn't goodbye forever… just for now."

"Why is this the first time she's opening her mouth and saying something I want to hear?" Santana sniffled; smiled.

Kurt found Tina's hand on his left and Finn's on his right. The whole group joined hands and stood quietly for a long minute; looking around at each other.

When they walked to the front of the gym and mounted the stage to a few catcalls and choice words; none of them minded. The music started and the crowd hushed.

_There's a time and place, for everything._

_There's a reason why certain people meet._

_There's a destination, for everyone._

_What's the explanation, when we're done?_

Kurt looked past his classmates—some watching quietly others openly leering at them— and picked out Blaine and his parents. Carol was whispering something in Blaine's ear. He nodded his head, but his eyes remained on Kurt; his grin widening when their eyes met.

_All the summer nights spent wondering;_

_So many questions asked, but no one's answering._

_Would it be okay if I left today?_

_Took my chances on what you said was wrong?_

Kurt looked back to the sea of red robes in the front few rows and caught Karofsky's eye. He was slumped low in his chair, but, surprisingly, his expression was not vacant or even resentful. He stared back at Kurt and even smiled a little. Kurt was shocked enough to check twice, but, yes, Karofsky was definitely smiling—it held no mocking disdain or ugly hatred… it wasn't exactly friendly or warm either, but it remained even when Kurt held his gaze. And why shouldn't they be able to smile at each other? Kurt reassured himself; after all, he had been the one to say it: high school was over.

He returned the smile.

_I'm jaded, stupid, and wreckless._

_Not sorry, and I'll never regret._

_These years spent, so faded and wreckless._

_Not sorry, and I'll never regret these years._

_I'll never regret these years_

* * *

The rest of the ceremony went so quickly, Kurt barely had time to process it. Even Figgins' speech seemed to have the fast forward button on it. Before Kurt knew it, Figgins was finishing with a reminder to stop by the blood drive as a way to 'give back to McKinley and Lima just one more time' and then they were being asked to stand and face the audience.

"Friends and loved ones, I present to you the graduating class of 2012," Figgins voice had never sounded so sweet in Kurt's ears. For once, he was more than happy to conform to the actions of the rest of his class: he felt as if a physical weight was lifted from his shoulders and high into the air right along with the ocean of red hats.

Despite the nearly palpable excitement of the end of the ceremony, nobody rushed for the doors. Students lingered; chatted; took pictures.

"So I'm feeling pretty badass dating someone out of high school and all that," Blaine grinned as he approached the glee club members.

"Well make sure you savor it now because in one week it's your turn," Kurt shouldered Blaine playfully, "though I would assume the headmaster at Dalton will leave out Red Cross plugs at the end of his speech."

"It's good to give back, Kurt," Rachel scolded.

"I don't see you skipping over to the blood drive," Kurt retorted.

"I donate all the time," Rachel looked around pointedly at the other members of New Directions, "As should all of you."

"Seriously; this school already sucked my soul out, they can't have my blood, too." Tina said flatly. The others nodded and murmured their agreement.

Having failed to persuade her classmates, Rachel turned to beam at Blaine, "What about you, Blaine? Going to help out a good cause?"

Kurt snorted, "Maybe if you drag him there kicking and screaming."

Rachel frowned, looking between Kurt and Blaine who had shoved his hands down in his pockets; his expression sheepish. Still, she tried to defend him, "I know he doesn't have a problem with blood—he helped Finn bandage his knee just last week after he fell playing basketball."

"Blood isn't the problem," Kurt glanced at Blaine.

Blaine shifted from foot to foot; he tried to smile at Rachel, "I… um… I kind of have this thing about needles."

"He's absolutely phobic." Kurt corrected.

"I am  _not_  phobic," Blaine pulled his hands from his pockets and crossed his arms across his chest, "I just don't like them; that's all."

"Blaine, you refused to go in for a check up because you thought they'd do a finger prick," Kurt rolled his eyes, "By the way, if you step on a rusty nail and get lockjaw from lack of tetanus vaccination, I am totally saying I told you so."

"Hey!" Blaine pouted, "No need to add details."

"You would do the same to me," Kurt replied coolly, though he did feel a little bad when his friends giggled.

" _I'm_  not running around telling everybody you're scared of mice," Blaine huffed.

"That was one time and I wasn't scared, I was  _disgusted_  that there was a mouse running around my basement." Kurt folded his arms; mirroring Blaine's defensive pose.

Blaine grinned, "Really? Because the way you stood on your vanity and screamed at me to kill it made it made you seem like you almost enjoyed having them around."

The entire group was laughing save for Santana. She just looked irritated.

"As freaking charming as I find your I-think-we're-so-fucking-adorable-when-we-banter thing you have going on, can you both please shut up so we can get out of here?" Santana rolled her eyes, "I wanna get my drank on, like, yesterday."

Kurt and Blaine trailed quietly after the group as they finally started to make their way toward the doors; Blaine was whistling Pomp and Circumstance.

"You're not actually upset I said that, are you?" Kurt watched Blaine out of the corner of his eye.

"Of course not," Blaine turned to look at him in surprise, "were you?"

Kurt shook his head quickly and added in a low voice, "And, truth be told, I  _am_  terrified of mice."

Blaine winked at him, "Your secret's safe with me."

When Blaine nearly stumbled into him to make a wide arc around the Red Cross station in the front entry, Kurt couldn't suppress a laugh. He found Blaine's hand and secured it tightly in his own, "I'd say the same to you, but I don't think me running my mouth will be the thing to give you away."


	5. Chapter 4

Kurt was content. He had taken up residence on the Anderson's family room floor all afternoon and had busied himself reclining against the couch with a book and listening to the soft scratch of graphite on paper when Blaine scribbled out notes to himself. Blaine had been uncharacteristically quiet all day—his brow furrowed and his eyes intense as he flipped through the pages of his textbooks. Kurt had contemplated harassing him with snide remarks and flirtatious jabs, but instead opted to let him be; he liked Blaine when he was being studious.

He glanced up from his book to watch his boyfriend. Blaine was splayed out on his stomach, propped on his elbows. He chewed at his eraser as his eyes scanned the page below him. He'd see Blaine like this a lot over the next few years, he realized: pouring over readings, studying for college exams…

Blaine glanced up at him and made a face. His head bumped Kurt's hip when he rolled onto his back.

"How's the studying coming?" Kurt smiled down at him.

Blaine caught Kurt's hand in his. He manipulated Kurt's fingers into the shape of a gun and pressed them to his forehead, "Does that answer your question?"

Kurt laughed and pulled his hand free from Blaine's hold, "It can't be that bad."

Blaine gave him a dark look and rubbed his eyes, "You have no idea."

"You're brilliant," Kurt reassured him coolly, turning his gaze back to his book.

"I failed my physics final yesterday." Blaine retorted.

Kurt didn't look up from his book, "You're just being paranoid. I'm sure you did great."

"I left an entire page blank," Blaine mumbled. His hand was still over his eyes.

Kurt looked back down at him with a frown. He pushed Blaine's hand away from his face so he could see his eyes, "You knew that stuff backwards and forwards already last week."

"And  _yesterday_  I could barely remember any of it," Blaine said sadly.

Kurt observed Blaine's gloomy expression for a while before brushing the dark hair off of his forehead, "I'm sure it'll be fine; you've done well on all your other stuff in the class, haven't you?"

Blaine nodded reluctantly.

"And even if it does drop your grade, NYU already accepted you; they're not going to revoke your admission over a B or something." Kurt kept running his fingers through Blaine's hair.

"It'll kill my GPA though," Blaine sighed, "Which means my parents will kill me."

"I doubt your mom and dad are going to murder you over a three-nine grade point, Blaine." Kurt soothed, "And I'm sure you'll do brilliantly on your other exams. It was a nasty fluke, that's all."

Blaine didn't look so sure, his eyes drifted back to his open book on the floor.

Kurt pulled on a curl of his hair gently; "And you're done in two days. You can't be depressed over a high school exam when you're done in forty eight hours."

Blaine looked back up at him with a smile, "That's true."

"You know what else is preventing you from being permanently depressed?" Kurt dog-eared the page of his book and set it aside.

"Hmm?" Blaine tucked a hand behind his head.

"You have me here to be your tutor," Kurt plucked Blaine's book from the floor and turned it over. He smiled, "Why didn't you tell me you were studying for French?"

"I didn't want to bug you," Blaine shrugged.

"Asking for help with French could never be irritating," Kurt straddled Blaine's stomach and lifted his hand in his, "Repeat after me."

Blaine smirked, "'kay."

Kurt pressed a kiss to Blaine's palm, "La main."

Blaine broke into a full on grin, "La main."

Kurt positioned a palm on the floor on either side of Blaine's shoulders; he kissed his cheek, "La joue."

Blaine turned his head so Kurt could kiss his other cheek, "La joue."

Kurt kissed his nose.

Before Kurt could offer the word, Blaine spoke quickly, "le nez."

"Very good, Mr. Anderson—" Blaine caught Kurt by the neck and pulled his mouth down to his, effectively cutting off his speech.

When he pulled away just enough to allow some room for air, Blaine smiled, "J'adore votre lyvres."

Kurt laughed, "Okay, I get it; you don't need French help."

"Oh, but I do," Blaine pulled Kurt just a little closer, his lips brushing Kurt's when he talked, "Lots and lots of help."

"What you need help with is your concentration." Kurt sat back and lifted a book from the floor. He dropped it down on Blaine's chest, "Study."

Kurt made to shift off of Blaine, but Blaine caught his wrist, "Kurt?"

Kurt looked at him expectantly.

"Je t'aime." Blaine smiled.

"You are incorrigible," Kurt sighed; he leaned over Blaine again and kissed him with a smile, "Don't ever change."

* * *

"They'll be here, would you calm down?" Blaine threw Kurt a sideways smile, "and if they don't show, would it really be that bad to sit with my parents?"

Kurt gave him a pointed look, "Blaine, you can barely sit through dinner with your parents. You expect me to suffer through the awkwardness of enduring your entire commencement ceremony between them?"

Blaine grinned, "Touché; but you'd probably sit next to my mother; I doubt they'd stick you between them."

"No, no; they'd sit him right in the middle and gush over how lovely it is that you two little turtledoves are going to run away together next fall." A voice chided from behind them.

"Wes! You made it!" Blaine grinned, ignoring the playful jabs at he and Kurt.

"Of course I made it; I said I'd be here, didn't I?" Wes frowned at Blaine as though offended at the notion he would flake on making an appearance.

"We wouldn't miss out on the little Warblers finally leaving the nest, would we?" David appeared at Wes's shoulder, "Forgive us, though, if we have more people than just you to say hello to after being gone a whole year."

"You came to visit Dalton over Thanksgiving and Christmas and Spring Break and to watch the Warblers perform at—" Kurt ticked events off on his fingers.

"Okay, I get it; I was overdramatic," David scowled, "We could still make you sit with the Andersons, you know."

Kurt folded his hands into a prayer position, "Please don't; I'm no good with forced small talk and pleasantries. I thought I was going to die last time I stayed for dinner."

"Hey, come on, they're my parents," Blaine grimaced but then smiled for Kurt, "You're the first guy I've ever had stay for a meal, give them a little slack."

Kurt sighed, "Fine, fine. By the way, don't you need to be practicing harmonizing or something?"

"Yeah, aren't you supposed to be council head now?" Wes frowned at him, "I saw Jeff and Nick just wandering around earlier; shouldn't you be calling them to some kind of order by now?"

"Get off my case, you aren't in charge anymore  _Junior_  Chordial," Blaine straightened his hat and threw the trio a wink, "I've got it under control."

"You're as cheeky as you were when I was still in charge," Wes grumbled.

"Well if Blaine has a handle on the Warblers, we should get out of his hair," David pressed a hand into Wes's back, "Kurt, meet us at the doors."

Kurt smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle in Blaine's robes with a sigh, "Black is so much classier than our red ones were."

"I'm surprised you don't find them bland," Blaine quirked an eyebrow.

"On you, they look quite dashing, but they  _are_  lacking something…" Kurt tapped a finger against his lips for a moment as though deep in thought. He reached up to the lapel of his own jacket and unfastened the feather pin and pinned it to Blaine's robes, "There; perfect."

Blaine squeezed Kurt's hands between his once and looked down at the pin, "I'm assuming you're not trying to give this back to me."

"Of course not; I'll have you know my boyfriend gave that to me and it's very near and dear to my heart; I'll want it back the second we step foot into that after party at Nick's." Kurt sniffed indignantly.

"Nice gift; must be some boyfriend." Blaine smirked.

"He's a real peach," Kurt rolled his eyes and kissed Blaine's cheek quickly, "Go find your little songbirds and get practicing. I expect a perfect performance."

"Then you've come to the right place," Blaine winked.

"You're as cocky as you are dreamy," Kurt shook his head, "I'll see you after."

"It's not cocky to be self-aware of talent!" Blaine called after him.

Kurt glanced over his shoulder to shoot Blaine a look before continuing toward the auditorium. He slipped into his seat beside David. Wes was still grumbling about Blaine insulting his junior status in his new a cappella group.

"How is Cornell, by the way?" Kurt smiled over David at Wes.

"Difficult, exhausting, and wonderful." Wes smiled a little, "You're going to love college, Kurt."

"I'm interning this year," Kurt corrected, "Blaine will be at school though; I'll experience it vicariously through him."

"Did you two manage to convince Blaine's parents to let him live off campus?" David glanced up from the program he was flipping through.

Kurt sighed, "No; he has to stay in the dorms his first year; they don't care where he is after that… they think it's too much of a distraction for him to live off campus."

David snorted and turned his program toward Kurt, "If he can manage high honors at Dalton with you hanging around, I'm sure he'd be just fine next year."

Kurt took the program from David to beam down at the little double asterisks next to Blaine's name to indicate his pristine GPA. He made a mental note to tell Blaine I-told-you-so, but then Wes was speaking and he had to check back into the conversation.

"—to get the experience." Wes was nodding his head in that self-assured way of his.

"Come again?" Kurt did his best to not let Wes know he hadn't been paying attention.

Wes gave him a disgruntled look, "I  _said_  being in the dorms will be good for him; it's part of the college experience."

Kurt bit his lip as he contemplated their upcoming living situations, Blaine would be at college—staying in a room with another boy…

David caught his expression, "Relax, Kurt. Blaine's got eyes for only you; I hated my roommate, personally."

Kurt smiled at him gratefully.

The lights were dimming to signal the start of the ceremony.

Wes squinted down into his program as the graduates filed in down the center aisle to take their seats in the front rows. He smiled; clearly pleased, "Good song selection."

The Warblers filed onto the stage— they started their usual harmonizing, glancing toward the center as Nick and Jeff stepped forward.

_I've been waiting for my dreams_

_To turn into something_

_I could believe in_

_And looking for that magic rainbow_

_On the horizon_

_I couldn't see it until I let go_

_Gave into love_

_And watched all the bitterness burn_

_Now I'm coming alive_

_Body and soul_

_And feelin' my world start to turn_

The whole group joined in for the chorus; Kurt exchanged a quick smile with the other two former Warblers. Blaine had never let his comment about "Blaine and the Pips" slide; he'd been adamant about making sure he and the other council members allowed others the opportunity for solos and duets.

_And I'll taste every moment_

_And live it out loud_

_I know this is the time,_

_This is the time_

_To be more than a name_

_Or a face in the crowd_

_I know this is the time_

_This is the time of my life_

_Time of my life_

David nudged Kurt and winked when Blaine stepped forward for his solo. Kurt felt a swell of pride in his chest; Blaine's mere movement to the front of the pack sent a noticeable energy through the crowd. Even parents knew about Blaine Anderson's star status in the Warblers. Blaine beamed out at them all, still keeping in step with the boys behind him. He opened his mouth…. And nothing came out.

Kurt shifted a little in his seat; the Warblers kept the harmony going, but Blaine was mute at the front of the group; his expression moving from confused to panicked quickly. He found Kurt's eyes; they were practically screaming  _'Help me.'_

Kurt stared back feeling horribly powerless; there was nothing he could do. A tentative voice rang out from the group of Warblers.

_Holding onto things that vanished_

_Into the air_

_Left me in pieces…_

The Warbler stepped forward to stand along side Blaine and continued the song. Kurt had never been so grateful to see that familiar shock of blonde hair; Jeff glanced toward Blaine every few seconds as kept singing. Kurt was sure Blaine would brush off the misstep and pick up the song with his fellow Warbler.

He didn't. He paused in his dance steps for a brief second before slipping back into his place with the group, leaving Jeff to finish his solo.

Kurt could feel Wes and David's eyes on him, but he remained facing forward. What the hell had just happened?

The Warblers finished their song, and despite Blaine's little slip up, they were given a standing ovation. Blaine smiled and bowed with the rest before shuffling off stage to join their classmates, but Kurt could see what no one else could all over his face. Blaine was devastated and completely thrown off his game. His smile was forced when he went up to receive his diploma; he tripped a little on his way down the steps to return to his seat. Kurt felt an ache in his chest for him—when it came to his music, Blaine was an absolute perfectionist. A little slip up in choreography at a nursing home show could send him into a three hour drill of the steps until they were perfect; if something didn't sound quite right to him in the harmony, he would listen to every individual Warbler do their part until he found the source of the problem. Completely forgetting the lyrics at his graduation ceremony, though… this was going to be bad.

The Dean presented the class, and much like at the McKinley ceremony, hats flew into the air; the crowd got to their feet and clapped. The air was filled with excitement, but Kurt was tense as he tried to search out Blaine in the crowd of students meshing with family and friends.

"I hope you have a straightjacket for your boyfriend to prevent some serious self-harm." David spoke grimly into Kurt's ear.

"Trust me, I'm already trying to come up with something." Kurt sighed and rose up on his tiptoes—why did Blaine have to be so freaking short? He was impossible to pick out in the crush of bodies. Kurt looked for the next best target—he spied John Anderson quickly.

"We're going to round up the troops—meet us at Nick's?" Wes touched a hand to Kurt's arm, "Talk to Blaine; see if you can mellow him out, and we'll try to come up with some back up."

"Thanks," Kurt smiled bleakly and turned his attention back to his boyfriend's father, careful to keep him in his sight as he picked his way through the other students. When he finally broke through the last family separating him from the Andersons, he was a little relieved to find Blaine standing between his parents, a tight smile on his face as someone snapped a picture of the trio.

Even after the flash went off, Blaine kept smiling; he nodded and said something to the man who had taken the picture for them.

Elizabeth caught Kurt's eye and smiled politely. She murmured something in Blaine's ear before turning her attention back to another mother who had approached.

Blaine said something to the people he was standing with and offered a short laugh before excusing himself to move toward Kurt.

Kurt tried to give him his most winning smile, "Congrats, grad."

Blaine's smile fell, "Lets go before my parents decide we need to have a family dinner or something to celebrate."

"Are you sure you don't want—"

"Please, Kurt; lets just go," Blaine glanced around the room; a frown line forming between his eyebrows.

"Say no more; we're gone," Kurt jingled his car keys for Blaine to see before turning on his heel toward the exit, trusting Blaine to follow.

As soon as they were in the car, Blaine turned on the radio. The action spoke for itself: No, he didn't want to talk about it.

Kurt glanced over at him when they reached a stoplight.

Blaine had his forehead pressed against the window. His robe was unzipped and his Dalton uniform peaked out from underneath. He had his hat on his lap and the cord of his tassel wrapped so tightly around his fingers it was turning them white.

"You're going to lose a finger." Kurt said quietly.

Blaine ignored him, twisting the string even tighter around his hand.

Kurt pulled the car over on the side of the road and put it in park.

Blaine looked over at him in confusion.

Kurt folded his arms across his chest and stared back at him.

"What?" Blaine snapped, finally pulling his fingers free from the tassel.

"Blaine," Kurt kept his voice gentle, "You're so upset with yourself right now I feel like you're a bomb hazard."

"Wouldn't you be?" Blaine shot back; his tone still flat and angry.

Kurt nodded, "It's okay you're angry, but don't let it ruin your whole day. You finished high school today, Blaine; you graduated and with high honors; that's something to be proud of!"

"I made a fool of myself in front of the entire senior class and their families; in front of David and Wes and you." Blaine's hands were clenched into fists in his lap.

"No, making a fool of yourself in front of me and Wes and David was you attempting to woo a Gap employee with a Robin Thicke song; this was a tiny hiccup," Kurt tried to get a smile out of him, "It's not that big of a deal, so what if you forgot the lyrics—"

"I never forget lyrics," Blaine snapped.

Kurt bobbed his head up and down quickly; his attempt at damage control was failing miserably, "It was a one time thing, it happens—one time I forgot to—"

"I did not forget the lyrics!" Blaine shouted.

Kurt jumped; Blaine raising his voice was a rarity and it had never been directed at him before. Even when they fought, Blaine didn't shout: he got snarky, sure, but to raise his voice… it just didn't happen.

Despite his mood, Blaine seemed to note the breech in conduct, too. His scowl melted and he stared down at his lap. He repeated himself in a softer tone, "I didn't forget the lyrics."

"Okay…" Kurt frowned, "What happened, then?"

Blaine glanced up at him, "They were there in my head; I knew them—I  _know_  them—but I opened my mouth and… nothing came out. It was like a really, really horrible nightmare."

Kurt reached across the space between them and squeezed one of Blaine's hands. He knew that fear— _every_  performer knew that fear, and poor perfection-obsessed Blaine had experienced it first hand at his final performance, "Were you nervous maybe?"

Blaine shot him a dubious look.

Kurt couldn't help but smile, "Right, okay, stupid question. Blaine Anderson doesn't get nervous."

"I do now." Blaine groaned, slumping low in his seat.

"Blaine, I know you," Kurt tried to meet Blaine's eyes, "It won't happen again."

"It  _can't_  happen again; I just ruined the final show for all the senior Warblers," Blaine flinched as though the notion physically stung him.

"You hardly ruined it—Jeff got to sing a duet  _and_  a solo—he probably thinks it was your best show yet," Kurt pulled the pin from Blaine's gown and replaced it on his vest, "The only way you could possibly ruin it is to keep beating yourself up over this and ruin the whole party. Everyone's happy today, Blaine, and they want to see you happy, too. Please try? For me?"

Blaine studied Kurt's pin for a long moment before lifting his gaze to his face. He let out a long breath, "…okay."

"Smile." Kurt commanded.

Blaine forced an overly cheery grin for a second before rolling his eyes.

Kurt snorted, "Beautiful. Now give me a kiss and stop beating up on my boyfriend; I like him a lot and I don't like to see anyone getting down on him."

Blaine's mouth finally turned up into a genuine smile as he leaned across the gearshift to give Kurt his demanded kiss. When he sat back in his seat, his shoulders had relaxed and the angry line on his forehead had disappeared.

Kurt shifted back into drive and pulled back onto the road, "Much better."

Kurt felt his phone vibrate against his leg when they were nearly in Nick's neighborhood. He pulled it out and had to stifle a giggle.

' _Should we be hiding all sharp objects and anything that could be used as a noose?' –D_

Despite Kurt's attempts at nonchalance, Blaine had read the message over his shoulder anyway. He rolled his eyes, "Tell him I am no longer a hazard to myself or others."

Kurt smiled and typed out a quick response knowing Blaine would be reading the message, too.

' _He'll be fine, but watch your mouth; his sanity is a little questionable…'-K_

"Very funny," Blaine grumbled, he looked up at the house sullenly as they pulled up along the curb behind a long row of cars. Even through the closed windows, they could hear the boys out back at the pool. His expression melted into anxiety, "You really think they aren't upset?"

"You are so thick headed it is unbelievable sometimes," Kurt let out an irritated sigh, "Yes, I truly, honestly one-hundred and ten percent believe they are not even a fraction of a bit upset with you."

Blaine nodded slowly and pulled the gown off from over his uniform, "All right… if you're right and they're not mad, then they're going to tease me relentlessly, so lets just get this over with."

"Stop being such a baby, this is supposed to be fun," Kurt watched Blaine as he balled up the shiny black fabric and tossed it into the backseat before climbing out of the car.

Blaine trailed after Kurt as he made his way around the side of the house.

As soon as the other Warblers were aware of them, two turned to face them with squirt guns aimed.

"Unless you are ready to die a very painful and very untimely death, do not even  _think_ about it." Kurt glowered at them fiercely.

"Our quarrel is not with you, good sir," the first Warbler pointed his gun toward Blaine with a grin, "It's with our former lead— you force us into a three hour rehearsal on the last day of school, Blaine, and  _you_ forget the words to your own solo? Really?"

"I didn't forget the lyrics!" Blaine sulked and threw a look at Kurt, but before Kurt could even form a reply, the two were running at Blaine, fingers pressed down on the triggers of their guns.

Blaine yelped indignantly when one successfully soaked his suit shirt and tried to take cover behind Kurt.

"Enough, guys," Jeff pushed down the guns of the other two, "Blaine was very generous today—he gave me the opportunity to play hero and soloist; cut him some slack."

"Ha ha," Blaine rolled his eyes as he peaked out from behind Kurt's back.

"Go torment someone else," Jeff waved them away toward the pool where some of the other boys were swimming. He watched them go before turning back to Blaine with a nervous smile, "I didn't get the chance to catch you after the ceremony—I had to take pictures with my family and stuff; I'm sorry for just jumping in like that, I just thought—"

"You have nothing to apologize for; you saved me from completely falling flat on my face," Blaine shrugged, "It should be  _me_  apologizing; I'm sorry for—"

"Oh for Christ's sake, Blaine, shut up," David appeared at Jeff's side, "You have not missed a single step since your first day with the Warblers— the odds were stacked against you; everyone screws up at some point."

Blaine ignored Kurt jabbing an I-am-always-right elbow into his side, "I guess so."

"It's over; we're graduated," Nick clapped Blaine on the back as he passed and shoved a red cup into his hand, "So live it up and drink it down."

Blaine tipped the cup from side to side and stared down into its contents. The faint spicy aroma of rum tickled his nose.

"Go ahead," Kurt nudged Blaine lightly.

"I thought you were highly against me drinking," Blaine raised an eyebrow as he looked toward Kurt.

"Well, seeing as how you've just graduated, you're crabby, you worked your ass off this year, and there is not a girl in sight for you to suddenly go all bi-curious for," Kurt smirked, "I think it's safe to say a drink might be good for you."

Blaine laughed despite himself, but still looked unsure. He glanced up at Jeff, "Where are Nick's parents?"

"Choosing to play ignorant," Jeff shrugged; he held his cup out toward Blaine's.

"Good enough for me," Blaine shrugged and tapped his cup against Jeff's before taking a drink.

"Keep calm and warble on," Jeff winked and took a long gulp from his cup.

It took only minutes before a similar cup was forced into Kurt's hand despite his loud 'I-have-had-nothing-but-bad-alcohol-experiences' protest, and, despite all his protesting, it was only a few more minutes before he was sweetly requesting that his cup be refilled.

He sipped his second drink more slowly; his head already a little fuzzy and his limbs warm from the first. He turned his attention to Blaine who had finally relaxed back into his usual mellow demeanor. Kurt noted he was still wearing his wet shirt, "Don't you feel a little stifled still being in that uniform? It's like a million degrees out here."

Blaine looked down at his blazer and traced a finger along a line of red piping, "I won't ever wear this again after today; kind of sad really…"

Kurt looked over his boyfriend, remembering the first day they met on the stairwell. That uniform had made him look so unbearably dreamy… he leaned into Blaine's side; liking the familiar feel of the fabric against his arm, "I'm going to miss it, too. It's like a part of you in a weird way."

Blaine recovered from the sudden sentimental attack and grinned, "I'll bring it with to New York; we could always play dress up…"

"I have no idea what kind of role play scenario you have running through your head, but put it away please." Kurt laughed and sipped at his drink.

"You really want to just brush of the retirement of my uniform like it's nothing?" Blaine clutched a hand over his heart as though hurt.

"None of the other boys are having separation anxiety or parting ceremonies for their Dalton attire," Kurt motioned a hand toward the others around them in either swimsuits or casual clothes, "Besides, a blazer that doesn't involve red piping will be a pleasant change."

"You love this blazer," Blaine retorted; his voice low.

"Don't do that to me," Kurt pouted at his boyfriend.

"Do what?" Blaine leaned in closer.

"That voice—you know what I'm talking about, too, so don't you dare try to deny it. I cannot resist that voice." Kurt insisted, but it wasn't just the voice. It was those eyes, and that hair, and that smile…

"So stop resisting." Blaine's face was so close, Kurt could feel his breath, warm and sweet against his skin.

"You're incorrigible," Kurt murmured. He tried to remind himself there were people around; that he needed to maintain some sense of decency in public, but why oh why did Blaine's lips have to look so perfectly kissable?

"If I remember right, I was asked to never change that little bit of my personality." Blaine murmured. He suddenly pulled away from their close proximity and finished off his drink.

Kurt blinked; feeling more drunk off Blaine than alcohol.

Blaine stood up casually, shaking out his left foot a little and peering down at Kurt, "I'm going to go get out of these wet clothes."

Kurt nodded dumbly.

"I brought a couple different shirts; I might need a little help picking out what to wear…"

Kurt stumbled to his feet and latched onto Blaine's hand, "'m sure there's a spare room in the basement we can get you dressed in—that is, if you can remember how to unbutton your shirt."

"When have I ever forgotten how to undo my shirt?" Blaine frowned as he followed after Kurt. He hadn't been wearing a button down that night at Rachel's, he was sure of it, but he could think of no other time he might have displayed any sort of difficulty with his shirt…

"Well you never forget lyrics either, there's a first time for everything," Kurt shrieked when Blaine growled and pulled him back against his body.

"I  _don't_  forget lyrics," Blaine insisted, holding Kurt close.

"Oh, yeah?" Kurt retorted; trying to ignore the fact that Blaine's mouth was only an inch from his, "Prove it."

Blaine didn't distance himself even a fraction of a centimeter.

_Holding onto things that vanished_

_Into the air_

_Left me in pieces_

_But now I'm rising from the ashes_

_Finding my wings_

_And all that I needed_

_Was there all along_

_Within my reach_

_As close as the beat of my heart_

Kurt swallowed hard to regain composure. The only thing more attractive than Blaine talking to him or looking at him or smiling at him was Blaine singing at him, "Okay, fine; Blaine Anderson doesn't forget lyrics."

"Never ever?" Blaine's hands moved up to frame Kurt's face.

"Never ever," Kurt agreed; a small thought began to form, a query he wanted to add to that sentence, but then Blaine was closing the space between them and there was no more room for words.

Despite the warmth of Blaine's mouth on his and the soft buzz of alcohol in his head, that small nagging thought tugged at the back of Kurt's mind.

… W _hat the hell happened on stage?_


	6. Chapter 5

Kurt woke with a start, blinking and trying to orient himself. Someone's foot was dangerously close to his face—he wrinkled his nose and shoved it away gruffly—he blinked at the boys around him passed out on couches and chairs.  _Nick's basement_ he registered dully; he had fallen asleep on the floor of Nick's basement snuggled under a comforter with Blaine. The light seeping in from cracks in the curtains was hazy and gray; over the soft hum of even breathing all around him, Kurt could hear the sound of rain pelting the glass. He lifted his phone—7:28. He mentally cursed his inability to stay in bed past eight and dropped his phone back down. He stared up at the ceiling for a few minutes before he rolled over to face his boyfriend. Maybe it could be construed as creepy, but Kurt loved to watch Blaine sleep. Since the very first accidental sleep over they had shared after Rachel's party, Blaine had proven to be nearly impossible to share a bed with. The second he dozed off, he had a tendency to splay out across the sheets; a leg kicked out at an awkward angle over the majority of the mattress, one arm hanging off the edge of the bed; he slept with the reckless abandon that only boys can possess and, though it resulted in being kicked through a large portion of the night, Kurt absolutely adored that quality in Blaine.

Kurt frowned as he studied the boy beside him. He was on his back and had a forearm cast over his eyes and one knee up, but he otherwise lay still. It was the tenseness of the position that bothered Kurt—Blaine was deadweight when he slept, completely relaxed and lost to the wonderland of his unconscious; this was…off. Kurt prodded him lightly in the side, "Blaine?"

"Don't yell in my ear," Blaine groaned, not moving.

"I'm whispering," Kurt retorted quietly.

"Feels like you're screaming," Blaine mumbled. He dropped the arm from his face, but kept his eyes tightly closed.

Kurt frowned and tried to jog his memory of the night before. Blaine couldn't have had more than three or four drinks over the course of the night—not enough to result in much damage, and besides, Kurt had kept pace with him and he felt great. Well, maybe not great, but he felt decent, "You're not hung over are you?"

Blaine shook his head and grimaced, "No, but my head is about to explode, will you hand me my bag? I've got Advil in there."

Kurt climbed out from under the warmth of the covers, shivering when the cold air made contact with his skin. He stepped over a few boys and retrieved Blaine's duffle bag. He sat down on top of the comforter and rifled through Blaine's things—a toothbrush, a clean shirt, cologne… he almost missed the little white bottle. He popped the cap off and looked down into the container, "You think you need three?"

"Make it four," Blaine pressed the heel of his right hand into his forehead.

"You've only got three," Kurt poured them into his palm to be sure.

"What?" Blaine finally opened tired eyes to frown up at Kurt, "I just bought that bottle yesterday; are you sure?"

Kurt tipped the empty container for him to see, "Unless you attempted an Advil OD sometime in the past twenty four hours, I'm assuming this isn't the container you bought."

Blaine closed his eyes for a minute and sighed, "I must have grabbed the wrong one by mistake."

"So three or none?" Kurt held out the pills.

Blaine scooped them off Kurt's palm and swallowed them dry before dragging Kurt's vacated pillow over his face, "Thanks."

Kurt set to work quietly repacking the things he'd pulled out of Blaine's bag. He tried to form some sort of system to the contents. He liked that sort of thing: organizing and coordinating and planning—it gave him room to think; let his mind wander… he frowned as he replaced the empty pill bottle in a side pocket, "Blaine?"

"Mmm?" Blaine didn't move.

"Was the Advil for an anticipated hangover?" Kurt f olded Blaine's wrinkled Dalton shirt before tucking it down into the bottom of the bag.

"No," Blaine's voice was muffled under the pillow, "'v beh get' 'daches."

Kurt rolled his eyes and pulled the pillow off of Blaine's face, "Come again?"

Blaine scowled at him over the loss of his pillow before repeating, "I've been getting headaches."

"You didn't tell me that," Kurt frowned at him, holding the pillow above his head when Blaine made a grab for it.

"I also didn't tell you that I like toast for breakfast and I need to buy a new pair of shoes," Blaine rolled his eyes, "I don't tell you every little thing running through my head."

"Okay, you made your point; you don't need to tell me  _everything_ ," Kurt sniffed indignantly and dropped the pillow back down on Blaine's face, " But I'll have you know I make wonderful toast, and I shouldn't need to remind you that I am  _the_  go-to person for fashion advice."

Blaine pulled the pillow down and hugged it to his chest, "I'm not trying to be mean—I'm saying I didn't tell you because it's not a big deal."

"Well you could have worded it that way instead of implying I'm clingy or something," Kurt inspected his fingernails with a pout.

"I don't think you're clingy," Blaine yawned, "But as long as we're discussing what's running through my head; I'm thinking you're adorable with bed head."

Kurt blushed and ran a hand through his hair but smiled, "Not as adorable as you with crease lines across your cheek from your pillow."

"As endearing as you two are flirting at seven in the morning, please desist so the rest of us can get some sleep," Wes grumbled from somewhere nearby on the floor.

"Seriously," David chimed, his voice raspy with sleep, "I'm going to need a dentist appointment to deal with the destruction of all that sweet. Shut up."

"Have them send me the bill," Kurt retorted with a smile.

David threw his pillow at him in response.

"How sweet of you to give this to me; you're so thoughtful, David," Kurt settled back down on his back beside Blaine; fluffing the side of the pillow and smiling sweetly at David.

"Remind me to kill you when I'm actually awake for the day," David glowered at him before dropping his head back down onto the couch and pulling the blanket over his head.

Blaine threw one of his pillows at the older Warbler before rolling onto his stomach and snuggling in beside Kurt.

"Can we  _please_ get up for the day?" Kurt poked at Blaine's shoulder.

Blaine didn't open his eyes; he yawned, "Hold tight for an hour or so; I can barely function with this headache."

"Maybe you need caffeine," Kurt was restless; the notion of lying awake for another hour practically made his legs tingle with energy; he tried to make his offer sound as enticing as possible, "If you get up now, I'll buy you coffee."

Blaine was already drifting back to sleep; he stretched an arm across Kurt's chest and nuzzled his face in close to his arm, "Just lay here with me for awhile."

_Lay here with me._ Kurt finally gave up his attempts to rouse Blaine; the words made him nostalgic. He lifted a hand and held it over the one Blaine had draped across his chest—he closed his eyes and remembered the first time they had ever cuddled like this.

* * *

"I cannot believe you've never watched all of  _When Harry Met Sally_ ," Kurt scoffed as he dropped the DVD down into the player.

"It's like five hours long; you know I don't have that kind of attention span," Blaine shrugged from where he lay splayed out on the couch.

Kurt was attempting to locate the remote for the DVD player with little success, but he threw Blaine a look as he tried to dig a hand under the couch; groping for anything solid possibly hiding underneath, "It is not five hours long, and considering the fact that it was a part of a pivotal conversation in our relationship as friends and anything else, it  _should_ hold your attention."

"I saw it way before we met; I'm sure if it had been on TV or something after Valentine's Day I would have left it on and sat through the whole thing," Blaine offered no help with the remote quest; his eyes followed Kurt around the room with bemusement.

"Mhm, sure," Kurt let out a frustrated sigh when the remote refused to show itself, "I wish that when you're looking for something it would just appear when you needed it… or if I had a boyfriend that would help me look for said lost object, that could also be nice."

Blaine waved a hand in the air, "Accio remote!"

Kurt stared at him disdainfully, "Did you really just shout a Harry Potter spell?"

Blaine smiled, "Yes, and it didn't work, so I suggest you give up the hunt."

Kurt sighed and went back to the TV to hit play. He stood by the screen, letting out little irritated sighs as he skipped through the previews until he finally reached the menu. He hit play and turned to join Blaine on the couch, but he hesitated.

Blaine was still stretched out across the length of the couch; he smiled up at Kurt, "See, it didn't take that long to do it manually."

"No, I guess not," Kurt remained suspended in the middle of the family room. He and Blaine had only been together for what… a few days? They'd only decided on watching a movie because they were getting nowhere rehearsing for Regionals and now Kurt wasn't sure what to do—ask him to scoot over? Sit in the armchair? Smash himself in at the end of the couch?

"You know, considering how disgusted you were that I've only ever seen like half of this, I'm surprised you're willing to spend so much time blocking the screen," Blaine grinned at him.

"Oh, uh, right; sorry," Kurt quickly sat down in the armchair adjacent to Blaine; thanking God the only light was the dim glow of the television so Blaine wouldn't be able to notice his scarlet cheeks.

Blaine frowned and rolled onto his stomach, resting his chin on the top of his hands on the armrest to stare over at Kurt.

Kurt stared fixedly at the movie for as long as he could, but he could feel Blaine's eyes on the side of his face. He glanced over at him, "TV's straight ahead Blaine, not over here."

Blaine tilted his head and continued to study Kurt, "I'm aware."

Kurt glanced between the screen and his boyfriend—were they boyfriends? Like officially? They hadn't actually discussed it… they kissed a lot; they flirted; they held hands, but maybe that was all it meant to Blaine for now, just the next stepping stone in the Harry and Sally dynamic of figuring out what they had together… Blaine was still watching him, and Kurt was getting unnerved, "Do you need something or what?"

"Yes, I do," Blaine broke into a smile, "You. Over here. Now."

Kurt stood, but once again wasn't sure what to do—did he sit at the end by Blaine's feet or was he supposed to sit with Blaine's head in his lap? He was flustered and confused all over again and wishing he had never suggested they watch the movie.

Blaine laughed as he watched Kurt's torn expression. He made room between himself and the inside of the couch, "Climb over."

They were going to… lie together? Kurt didn't know why he was so nervous; he'd kissed Blaine, he'd shared a bed with Blaine (though he wasn't sure if Blaine passing out and kicking him through half the night really counted), but still his stomach twisted with nerves at the notion of such intimate contact. He awkwardly climbed over Blaine and slipped down beside him; his limbs awkward and his back stiff.

"Relax; I don't bite," Blaine tucked an arm around his back and gently pulled Kurt down until his head was resting on his chest.

Oh… well this was actually kind of nice… really nice… okay, amazingly nice. Kurt relaxed; tucked a hand up on Blaine's chest beside his face and tangled his legs with Blaine's.

"Comfortable?" Blaine tilted his head to look at Kurt.

Kurt nodded, "Are you?"

"Much more so than before," Blaine smoothed his hand up and down Kurt's back a couple times and turned his attention to the television screen.

Kurt rubbed a finger over the smooth surface of a pearl colored button on Blaine's shirt. Sure holding Blaine's hand made little butterflies take flight in his stomach and kissing him made his entire head spin and adrenaline rush all the way to the tips of his toes, but lying with Blaine like that, his body warm and sturdy and enveloping beneath his own, Kurt felt right; he felt whole. Blaine's free hand came up to cover his own, the vibrations of his voice resounding in his chest below Kurt's ear, "I don't know why I'm Billy Crystal; I would never wear flared jeans."

"He updates his wardrobe later and you're Billy because I'm Meg," Kurt snuggled in closer to Blaine's side and was rewarded with Blaine's arm squeezing tighter around him. Normally he would have snapped at anyone who dared to talk through a movie, but he listened to Blaine's running commentary with pleasure.

When the film was over, neither one made a move to turn of the TV. Kurt listened to the heartbeat below his ear and closed his eyes, content with the notion of staying right there forever. Blaine, never one for sitting still or ceasing his endless chatter, traced Kurt's knuckles with a thumb and remained silent. Kurt turned his hand over and caught Blaine's fingers between his own, "You're unusually quiet."

"Just thinking," Kurt couldn't see his face, but he could hear the smile in Blaine's voice.

"What are you thinking about?"

"How nice it is to not be lonely anymore."

* * *

Kurt smiled at the memory and slipped his fingers under Blaine's palm to squeeze his hand tighter. Yeah, he could lie here for a while.

Blaine's foot shifted under the covers and his thumb twitched against Kurt's palm; Kurt wondered absently what he was dreaming about. Music most likely… it seemed fitting that Blaine would dream of music and dancing on a regular basis; but today it was probably about screwing up his graduation performance. Kurt made a mental note to look up NYU show choirs when he got home; Blaine wasn't going to just let his slip up at commencement go without a little bit of self-loathing, and Kurt could use the list of potential singing groups Blaine could join as a distraction. He should probably start figuring out how he was going to pack up all his clothes, and where his boxes upon boxes of shoes would go in the apartment he and Rachel had their eye on, too… the mental to-do list grew and became more elaborate the longer he lay there. People he wanted to make sure to spend time with before the summer was out; outfits he needed to purchase; places he wanted to take Blaine; forms he still needed to mail in for his internship... When Nick roused himself—whining about his stiff neck and soar back from spending the night asleep in an armchair—Kurt welcomed the interruption to his list making; he was stressing himself out.

Nick paused in his complaints to look at Kurt and roll his eyes, "You two are the only people in the world who are as lovey-dovey and sappy unconscious as you are conscious. I don't know if I'm filled with warm and fuzzies or nausea."

"I'm just hungry for breakfast." Jeff sat up from his own awkward sleeping position crushed at the end of the couch by David's feet.

"Perkins trip?" Nick looked over at his friend hopefully.

Some of the other Warblers opened their eyes at the mention of food and Jeff bobbed his head up and down, "I could definitely go for a Perkins trip."

The others were quickly on their feet and searching for their bags.

Kurt drummed his fingers across the back of his boyfriend's hand, "Blaine, get up."

Blaine shook his head and kept his eyes closed.

"It is past nine and the guys want to go to breakfast; I'm not really giving you a choice," Kurt sat up and stretched his arms above his head; sleeping on the floor rarely did anything good for his back, "Get up."

Blaine groaned and turned his face down into his pillow, "But I'm  _tired_."

"You can sleep all summer long if you want, but right now you have to go get dressed," Kurt retorted, rubbing a hand across Blaine's back.

"You're far too easy on him," Wes rolled his eyes and stood over the other two with hands on his hips, "He is the worst morning person in the world. You have to be assertive."

"Here, I'll demonstrate," David strode over and, in one swift movement, tore the blanket off of Blaine, "Anderson, get your sorry ass out of bed this second."

"Hey!" Blaine sat up to glower at David.

"See?" Wes gave an approving smile to David before turning back to Kurt, "A little authority goes a long way; trust me."

"I'll make a mental note," Kurt suppressed a giggle as Blaine threw disgruntled looks at all three of them. He thrust Blaine's bag into his lap, "Go change."

" _You_ go change; I'm not the one who is going to keep everybody waiting with my hour long moisturizing routine," Blaine grumbled, but he was already peering down into his bag for the change of clothes he had packed.

"Who said anything about waiting for anyone?" Nick pulled a clean shirt over his head, "There's no way in hell I'm standing around and starving while you two finish up your skin and hair routines— you have fifteen minutes. Go."

Kurt hopped to his feet and dashed toward the bathroom, leaving Blaine to fend for himself. He took a moment to wrinkle his nose at his reflection in the mirror. His skin looked a little dull and, despite his shower the previous night, he was sure he could still detect the faint smoky scent of bonfire in his hair. He sighed as he set to work rubbing lotion into his skin. Sleepovers with boys were simply not good for one's vanity. He prepped himself as quickly as possible, nearly spilling a few of his face creams in the process. Blaine joined him a few minutes later, already dressed in a clean polo and shorts and his toothbrush dangling from one hand. He leaned his back against the wall as he brushed his teeth and watched Kurt fix his hair. Kurt offered him a quick smile, "Well, well, well; look who's finally decided to grace the waking world with his presence."

Blaine rinsed his mouth out and eyed his reflection beside Kurt's; he dragged a hand through his unruly curls.

Kurt watched him, "Don't put product in it; I like it like that."

"Messy?" Blaine turned his head back and forth to inspect his hair before throwing Kurt a cynical look.

"It's not messy, it's natural, and I think it's cute," Kurt insisted as he shoved his hair and skin products back into their bag.

"I think  _you're_ cute," Blaine dropped his hand from his hair and smiled over at Kurt.

Jeff popped his head through the doorway, "Can you two just flirt at the restaurant? I'm going to faint from near-starvation over here."

Kurt and Blaine exchanged a look before trailing after the other boy to the main room.

"They're ready!" Jeff announced, shrugging his duffel bag over one arm.

The others cheered and made their way toward the door.

"We're not that bad," Kurt rolled his eyes but couldn't fight the blush that tinted his cheeks.

Blaine squeezed his hand once reassuringly, "They're just jealous because we have all the talent  _and_  all the good looks."

"You might have to rethink the claim to being the most talented—no one else forgot the lyrics yesterday," chimed someone from the pack of boys moving toward the cars.

The unnamed Warbler was promptly smacked on the head by at least four others.

Kurt wished he was close enough to get a good solid hit in on the boy, too, when he saw Blaine's smile falter, "And no one else has led you guys to Regionals two years in a row, so I suggest you shut your mouth."

Blaine smiled at him gratefully, but offered no defense of his own as everyone dispersed into cars.

Kurt turned on the windshield wipers and followed Nick's car out of the neighborhood. He didn't listen to the playful honks and teasing from the two cars full of Warblers behind him. All he could hear was the silence in his own car, "Blaine."

"Hm?"

"You told me you weren't going to tear yourself up over the commencement performance," Kurt ignored Nick when he pulled up alongside him and tried to engage him in a race.

"I'm not," Blaine replied, pulling open Kurt's glove compartment to search through its contents.

"You didn't turn the radio on. You only leave the radio off when you're upset," Kurt pointed at the blackened screen above the CD player in his dashboard.

"I'm not turning the radio on because my head is going to tear me in two," Blaine pulled a pair of sunglasses out of the glove compartment and shoved them on despite the fact that low gray clouds obscured any potential sunlight.

"Didn't the medicine help?" Kurt felt a small twinge of guilt for accusing Blaine of lying to him.

"No," Blaine sighed.

"Do you want me to just take you home?" Kurt glanced over at Blaine with concern, "I'm sure the others would understand."

"No, that's okay; they get better with time…and coffee. Lots of coffee." Blaine offered Kurt a lame smile.

"Well then you're in luck—along with providing plentiful trans fat, Perkins gives free refills on coffee."

When they pulled into the parking lot, Kurt killed the engine, but frowned at Blaine. He looked pale and sleepy, "Are you sure you don't want to go home?"

Blaine yawned and shoved open his car door, "Positive; I told you, they're only really bad in the mornings."

Kurt frowned, "How long have you been getting these headaches for?"

"A couple weeks or so; I don't know. They come and go," Blaine shrugged, "Come on, lets get inside."

Despite his reassurances, Blaine lagged behind as they walked through the slow drizzle of rain and into the restaurant. He sank down into a chair beside Kurt and didn't bother taking his glasses off or brushing the rain from his hair.

"I know you tend to be one for theatrics, Blaine, but you've been out of bed for over an hour now; the I'm-not-a-morning-person-routine thing only works for about fifteen minutes after waking up," David glanced over the top of his menu at the boy across from him, "After that it's just chronic laziness."

"Leave him alone, he doesn't feel good," Kurt rested a hand on Blaine's knee below the table, "And he's the opposite of lazy; he never stops moving."

"Relax, Kurt, we're only teasing him," David smiled, "Right, Blaine?"

Blaine rolled his eyes and gave him a thumbs up as he tucked his sunglasses into his pocket. He threw the light above their heads a dirty look.

"Speaking of keeping busy, how are the new senior board members doing?" Wes glanced up from his menu.

"They're good," Blaine finally perked up a little, "But not as good as someone we're getting next year; have I told you about Trip yet?"

"No; what kind of a name is  _Trip_?" David wrinkled his nose.

"Trip is the kind of name overly presumptuous parents give to their babies when they are more concerned with proving that their family comes from some well-to-do New England background than the fact that their child has to live with that god awful name for the rest of their lives," Blaine smiled wryly, "Blaine is another perfect example of such a name."

"I like the name Blaine," Kurt murmured and squeezed Blaine's knee.

Blaine smiled appreciatively at Kurt.

"Stay focused, please, Anderson; you have the rest of forever for you and Kurt to gush over one another; tell us about Trip," Wes snapped his fingers impatiently.

Blaine made a face at him but continued, "Trip Morgan is who will take the Warblers to Nationals next year."

The table fell silent and everyone turned to look at Blaine. Graduating or not, the notion of the Warblers finally making it past the Ohio border sent a thrill through all of them.

"Do tell," Wes waved away the waitress when she came to check if they were ready to order and leaned in closer to Blaine.

"He's phenomenal," Blaine looked around at all of them, "Like jaw-dropping, eye popping, weeping tears of emotion amazing."

Kurt had yet to meet the elusive Trip Morgan, but he has heard what little information Blaine was willing to dole out, "Trip is Blaine's most recent rescue project."

Blaine leaned his elbows on the table and rubbed his temples, "He's not a rescue, per say; he's… well, he hasn't had the easiest time of it; he'll be boarding at Dalton in the fall."

"How'd you find this one? Was he spying on a Warbler's practice?" David winked at Kurt.

"No, my aunt told me about him—family friends or something; she mentioned he'd be coming to Dalton, and I said I'd keep an eye on him. We met over winter break when I went out to visit."

"Why's he coming to school in Ohio?" David frowned.

"That's his business," Blaine waved the question away, "The point is, he's interested in joining the Warblers and he's great."

"And, how, Oh Finder of the Angelic Voices, do you plan on mentoring him from New York?" Wes raised an eyebrow at Blaine.

"He's going to be living with relatives here all summer," Blaine shot back; he turned to smile at Kurt, "And talent like the people I've found rarely need much coaching anyway."

Nick rolled his eyes and turned his attention to flagging down the waitress, "I'm going to order before you start in on a monologue about your boyfriend again."

The topic was dropped and the others went back to their previous conversations, but Kurt was quiet beside Blaine. He knew about as much about this Trip character as David and Wes; Blaine had come home from his Christmas vacation out east and gushed about the boy's talent, but offered little other information. He trusted Blaine, he really did, but he couldn't help but feel a hint of jealousy over Blaine's praises directed toward this mystery boy.

He glanced over at Blaine who, having said his piece, had fallen back into slumping over the table with both hands clasped around his coffee mug.

"When's Trip going to get here?" Kurt tried to keep his voice flippant.

"In a couple weeks I think," Blaine didn't look up from the dark liquid inside his cup.

Kurt opened his mouth, prepared to fish for more answers but he was interrupted.

"Honey, what can I get for you?" The waitress had reappeared and she was looking down at Blaine expectantly with a pen poised in her hand.

"Just toast, please," Blaine smiled up at her.

"I'll have the same," Kurt flashed the waitress a quick smile of his own. He had planned on turning his attention back to Blaine, but then Jeff was pulling him into a conversation about a Lady Gaga and Brittany Spears mash up and he was fully distracted.

It wasn't until their food came that he finally looked over at his boyfriend. He looked even worse than before—his skin ashy and his fingers trembling at the edge of the table. He pushed his plate away the second it was set down in front of him. Kurt immediately pushed all interrogations relating to Trip from his mind.

"Come on," Kurt said quietly, pulling the napkin from his lap and dropped it on the table, "I'm taking you home."

Blaine shook his head, "We just got our food, Kurt, it—"

"You're not going to eat it anyway and I won't be able to eat either knowing you're sitting here feeling terrible," Kurt reached into his pocket for his wallet.

David looked up at him questioningly.

"I'm going to take him home; he's feeling pretty awful." Kurt fished a few bills out of his wallet and dropped them down on the table.

"Kurt, I can pay for—" Blaine frowned.

"Nonsense, you always pay," Kurt brushed Blaine's offer aside before turning his attention back to David, "If that doesn't cover us, let me know and I'll pay you back."

"I think fifteen dollars will be more than enough for some toast and a couple coffees; I'll give you change next time I see you," David laughed, "Feel better, Blaine; I want to hear more about this Trap kid."

"Trip," Blaine corrected, "And I'll call you later."

Kurt pressed a hand into the small of Blaine's back and maneuvered them around tables and chairs.

The hostess frowned when she caught sight of them heading toward the doors, "It's really coming down hard out there right now, guys, you might want to wait for it to let up a little. That's what everyone else is doing."

Kurt noted the other people milling around the lobby, impatient for the rain to abate. He peered out the glass-fronted doors at the sheets of rain pelting the parking lot; he could barely see the first row of cars, "Great."

Blaine stood beside him, his hands in his pockets and his eyes focused on the downpour outside, "Should we just sit back down?"

Kurt glanced over his shoulder at the surrounding scene—there was a table directly behind where the other boys were sitting that was currently playing host to a group of women than let out peels of shrieking laughter every few minutes. He eyed the bench nearby and considered having them wait there until the storm passed.

A child (that in Kurt's opinion was much too old for temper tantrums) abruptly lay down on the floor and began wailing; her fists pounding into the carpet and her mother screaming above the din for her to stop making a scene.

Kurt glanced over his shoulder at the frazzled maître Dee, "We'll take our chances with the rain."

"You sure you want to go out in that?" Blaine tore his eyes away from the mother and child to look at Kurt.

"I can shower and redo my hair when I get home," Kurt eyed the melee behind them, "I cannot, however, regain the hearing I'm going to lose if I stay in here. Lets just make a run for it."

Blaine slipped his hand into Kurt's, "Count of three?"

Kurt nodded, "One…two… three! Go!"

They dashed out of the restaurant and into the storm; slipping and sliding between cars. Kurt was soaked all the way down to his skin almost the second they were out the door, and he couldn't quite remember where they parked. Despite there being no hope for saving his clothes he kept jogging through the rivers of water quickly forming on the pavement below his feet, tugging Blaine along beside him. A streak of lightening split the sky and illuminated the sheets of water pouring down on them, and the crack of thunder that followed nearly shook the ground. The rain turned everything blurry in Kurt's eyes, the thunder growled and rumbled in his ears, and the air smelled of hot, wet pavement and the chemical tang of ozone; his senses were busy and his head nearly disoriented with the storm, but Kurt was acutely aware of something important suddenly  _not_  registering with him. Where only a second ago there had been warm, sure fingers tangled with his, there was now nothing.

Kurt skittered to a stop, flailing his arms out to keep his balance, "Blaine, come on, we need to— Blaine!"

The little spike in adrenaline he had felt at nearly slipping on the pavement was barely a blip compared to the rush of terror he felt flooding his head when he turned around to call for his companion. Despite the downpour, Kurt could easily make out Blaine's prone form; his legs and arms convulsed against the asphalt, looking as though they were charged with an electrical current. Kurt dropped to the ground on his knees but dared not touch him.

_A seizure._ The thought flew through his mind so quickly he almost didn't catch hold of it.  _Absence, myoclonic_ ,  _and tonic clonic._ He knew he'd memorized the list once for a sophomore year health quiz—the general symptoms and where they fell on a severity scale; he'd gotten an A on that quiz with a shiny gold star sticker pressed onto the page beside his name. He burst into bitter, desperate tears as he wracked his brain for something he could do to help the boy he loved, but the only image that came to mind was that stupid sticker. He cried out Blaine's name pathetically over and over again.

Just as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped. Whatever invisible power held Blaine captive, contorting his body and possessing him so wholly, let go and left him limp and unconscious.

Kurt didn't hesitate; he pressed his ear to Blaine's mouth and burst into a fresh round of tears—this time for relief—when he felt the shaky, hot breath against his skin. He sat up and looked around them desperately for anyone that may have tried to brave the storm too. He could not leave Blaine alone; that much he was sure of. But as he scanned the space, his eyes burning with rain and tears, his heart sank—they were only a few yards from the very last row of cars, and the lot, save for them, was empty. He screamed out into the rain desperately, "Help us! Somebody, please, help us! Anybody, p-please, Oh God, please someone help me."

He dug in his pocket for his phone and dialed with shaky fingers before crushing it between his ear and shoulder; listening to the rings and willing someone to pick up faster. He pulled Blaine's body close to his and wrapped one protective arm tightly around his middle. He pressed his other hand to Blaine's face, cradling him into his own body as tightly as he dared. His eyes continued to scan the space—so near help yet so far— for any sign of another person. He murmured into Blaine's unhearing ear, his voice trembling, "I'm here, don't worry; I'm here."


	7. Chapter 6

" _She f-f-fell down and she won't w-wake up."_

" _Can you see if she's breathing, honey?"_

" _Yeah… yeah she's breathing. Her chest g-goes up and down."_

" _Good; that's good. Did she hit her head?"_

" _I don't know. She was m-m-making cookies for us."_

" _It's okay, Kurt; don't worry, someone is coming to help your mom… has she fainted before?"_

" _Um, I think another time, but my dad was home. I want my dad."_

" _I know, don't hang up, though. Stay on the phone with me, okay?"_

"' _kay."_

" _Where is your dad?"_

" _H-he went to w-work cuz Mommy said she was f-feeling good enough to watch me by herself. H-he told me t-t-to take good care of h-her."_

" _I'm sure you did a great job; you're still doing a great job. Just stay by her and keep talking to me until the ambulance comes. Try and take deep breaths."_

" _I'm s-scared. I want her to j-just wake up."_

* * *

__

" _You're doing fine; is he still breathing normally?"_

_"He's breathing, but it's, um, it's loud and shaky—is that bad?"_

_"No, it's okay; it's normal. He's unconscious?"_

_"Y-yeah, I mean I think, I—I mean he moves sometimes—his hand moves, but he doesn't answer when I say his name—"_

_"Kurt—is it okay if I call you Kurt?"_

_"Y-Yeah, it's okay."_

_"Kurt, you are doing everything right, you don't need to cry; help is on the way, all right?"_

_"Yeah, o-okay,"_

_"I'll stay on the phone with you until the ambulance comes or your friends get outside; just try to stay calm, can you do that?"_

_"I'll try… He's bleeding; I didn't even—he's—what do I do?"_

_"From his head? Where?"_

_"Yeah, yeah the side of his head."_

_"He probably hit his head when he fell; the EMT will look at it; don't worry."_

_"He's bleeding a lot though, what if he—"_

_"Head wounds bleed a lot; it'll be okay, he might just need stitches at the hospital. Just hang in there, you're doing great."_

_"What if they can't see us in the rain?"_

_"They'll find you."_

_"I—I can see the lights—they're pulling into the parking lot."_

_"All right, are you ready to hang up?"_

_"No…please, just… just stay on the line with me until they're out of the ambulance with us? I don't want—"_

_"I won't hang up."_

* * *

Kurt hated waiting rooms. The blue-gray glow of fluorescent lights that stung his eyes; the plastic chairs formed to fit a body type nobody actually has; three month-old, rippled gossip magazines displaying scandals on their covers the world has already long forgotten, and the hanging print of—what appeared to be—a barn in a field, begging the question 'who the hell thought it was a good idea to purchase this, and what fucked up whack job thought it was a good idea to paint it in the first place?'. He hated all those things. But mostly, he hated the smell.

It didn't matter where the waiting room was—doctor's office, DMV, dentist, office building—they all smelled the same: disinfectant, talcum powder, and anxiety. And it wasn't just the smell of people sweating or the occasional stench of a child wetting itself; oh no, it was something much worse than that. Fear has a smell, and it put Kurt on edge.

He was sitting in one of the ill-made chairs, doubled over with his elbows on his knees watching the water drip from his hair and form a puddle on the scuffed linoleum when a Styrofoam cup was thrust into his view; the aroma of coffee momentarily overrode the other scents in the room. He stared at the hand offering it.

"Go on and take it," The owner of the hand kept his voice gentle, "It'll be good for you."

Kurt forced himself to engage and take the cup. He wanted to say thank you, too, but apparently that was too much for his frazzled brain. He stared down into the brown liquid silently.

The coffee provider sat down in the seat beside him; a move no one else had dared make—preferring to gather on the other side of the room and give Kurt his space while he came undone.

Kurt chanced a glance at his brazen new companion. He recognized him from his time at Dalton, but his name escaped him.

The boy beside him seemed to recognize the confusion on Kurt's features, "Aaron."

Kurt nodded dumbly and managed to find his voice, but it sounded too tight; too shrill, "I'm sorry, I remember you, but—"

"Don't sweat it; you're stressed," Aaron shrugged, "I just… I thought you might like a little company over here."

Kurt sat back in his chair, still cradling the cup between his hands.

"Did they get a hold of his parents?" Aaron ventured, taking a sip from his own little white cup.

"His mom is on her way," Kurt wished Aaron had remained with the others; he wasn't in the mood to talk, and he preferred to do his emotional spiraling on his own.

Aaron fell quiet for a long minute before suddenly blurting out, "I was the one who teased him about forgetting the lyrics this morning."

Kurt stared at him vacantly, "And?"

"And I feel shitty about it;" Aaron couldn't seem to hold Kurt's gaze so he stared at his sopping sleeve instead, "If I had known he was going to end up—"

"He's not dead; you can apologize yourself soon enough." Wes had approached seeing Kurt's sudden discomfort; he gave Aaron a pointed look.

"I didn't mean he was, I just meant—Kurt, you know I wasn't trying to say I thought, I mean it was just a seizure, not like a—" Aaron babbled; his cheeks red.

Kurt shook his head, "It's fine; your intentions weren't bad, I knew what you were trying to say… but, honestly, I'd prefer it if we didn't talk right now."

Aaron glanced up at Wes before looking back to Kurt and nodding his head slowly, "Oh, okay; sorry, I just… sorry."

"Thanks for the coffee," Kurt said quietly, though he had no plans to drink a single drop of it.

"Sure," Aaron got to his feet and shuffled toward the other side of the room.

Wes touched a gentle hand to Kurt's shoulder before moving back to sit with the other Warblers.

Kurt closed his eyes and tried to empty his head, but all he could see was a wet blue polo and a flower of blood blooming into dark hair. He opened his eyes again and lowered his nose closer to his cup. Coffee was a good smell. Coffee was the smell of dates with Blaine and early morning drives to Dalton.

He let himself be soothed and tried, for what felt like the hundreth time, to pick his brain for anything he could have added to Blaine's chart. The nurse had handed it to him calmly when he first arrived in the waiting room and told him to fill out what he could, and they would get the rest when Blaine's parents arrived. He'd stared down at the forms and written Blaine's name in a shaky scrawl. After the basics—name, age, gender, height—he'd stopped, pen poised above the pages; water dripped off his hand and made ugly swollen marks in the blue ink as he racked his brain. He knew Blaine wore Lacoste Essential cologne; he knew Blaine would pick out every red M&M to eat before consuming any of the others in a pack; he knew Blaine liked to lie out in the yard in the fall just to smell the earthy, sweet scent of fallen leaves. He didn't know what blood type he was; he wasn't aware of any allergies to medication; he didn't know who the Anderson's health insurance carrier was. He had handed the chart back to the nurse at the front desk with a miserable look on his face; he wanted to be of some use, any use, so he added quietly, "He's scared of needles."

His eyes followed Nick as he strode up to the front desk purposefully. He was the fourth Warbler to approach the irritable looking woman—the others had tried their hands at gleaning some sort of information about Blaine or demanding entrance to see him with no result while Kurt watched silently. He was turned away quickly; his shoulders drooped, and a grim look crossed his face as he looked back at the other Dalton boys and sank back down in his seat.

Kurt wasn't surprised; when he'd begged to be taken to Blaine when he'd first arrived in the ER, his shoes leaving wet trails all the way from the doors to the desk, the nurse had shaken her head sympathetically, "Family only; I'm sorry, you'll just have to wait."

So he did. He waited and tried to keep his mind at bay. He waited and ignored the texts piling up in his inbox and the calls from his father wondering where he was. He waited and wished he were religious so he could pray.

The sliding doors leading in from the parking lot opened and closed constantly; a soft puff of air breezing in with each opening. When Kurt was little, he thought it sounded like the hospital was breathing; sucking in life with each individual who stepped in from the outside world only to slide closed again to hold its breath until the next person searching for an injured or ailing loved one stumbled in through its mouth. He heard the great breath in and saw a pair of black heels tapping past him toward the nurses' station. He recognized those shoes. His head snapped up to watch Elizabeth Anderson approach the woman behind the desk. When his ears proved useless to aiding him in gleaning any information, he scrutinized her every move to try and discern from her body language what she was learning about her son. Her shoulders were stiff; her head bobbed up and down as the nurse spoke.

The Warblers were doing the same—Wes was on his feet; the others hunched forward in their seats to listen. The nurse pushed a clipboard across the counter that Elizabeth lifted to scrutinize until a second nurse came around the counter to lead her through a second set of doors. She glanced over her shoulder and met Kurt's eyes briefly before disappearing deeper into the ER.

Kurt stared at the space she had just occupied with a knot in his throat. He'd invested himself in her arrival. Once she was there, he had been sure, he would get answers; he would see Blaine. He jumped when a hand touched his shoulder.

David retracted his hand quickly, but didn't move from the seat beside Kurt, "We could hear a little bit of what they were saying; Blaine's stable and he's awake. She's going back to see him now."

Kurt nodded; if he spoke, he was sure the lump in his throat would dissolve into pathetic tears.

David breached the space between them again with a hand on his knee, "You'll get your chance; just hang in there."

"Thank you, David." Kurt swallowed hard to keep the tears under his control.

He didn't make David move away; he took a small comfort from the warm hand on his soaked jeans. He tipped his head back against the wall and closed his eyes; tried to focus on his breathing.

* * *

 

He was in the Senior Commons at Dalton; his blazer warm against his skin, and the whole space smelled like new books and varnish… but it was oddly quiet. He was alone—a rarity for the space; it was constantly buzzing with the hum of boys passing the door, turning pages; whispered voices. He walked around the bookcases, scanning the spines for a title he wasn't entirely sure of. He pulled one free at random. Its binding was weak and its cover may have once been navy, but it had faded to cobalt-tinted grey. He opened it and was disappointed; all the pages were blank. He replaced it with the rest and turned back to study the empty space. He felt on edge; paranoid like something was going to jump out at him.

"Blaine?" He called out the name uncertainly; his voice too loud in the silence.

The quiet fell upon the space once more; there was not so much as a whisper of breath save his own.

"Blaine?" He called out again, his voice was loud and frightened.

"Stop shouting, I'm right here."

Kurt jumped at the sudden voice but then relaxed seeing the familiar figure seated at the table. How had he not seen him come in? "I didn't realize you were here."

Blaine smiled and motioned at the empty chair across from him, "Come help me with this."

Kurt took the offered seat and turned his attention to what Blaine was pointing at. He had a scattering of materials on the table—beads, feathers, music note cut-outs, plastic stars; game pieces. The mahogany surface was littered with things, but Kurt couldn't discern any sort of rhyme or reason for it, "What is all this?"

Blaine looked down at the space too, a frown line formed between his eyebrows as he appraised the items, "I'm not really sure; I thought you would know."

"Well, I don't," Kurt looked around the room again; where were the windows?

"Think hard," Blaine insisted. He looked down at the table again and plucked a set of keys from the fray of materials. He jangled them in front of Kurt, "What do you suppose these open?"

Kurt let out an exasperated sigh, "Blaine, you put all this stuff here; why would I know better than you what any of it's for?"

Blaine laughed, "But I didn't! It was here when I got here."

"Then why do you care what any of it's for anyway?" Kurt felt oddly claustrophobic in such a big space.

"You don't feel it?" Blaine drew his feet up onto the chair and wrapped his arms around his shins.

Kurt shook his head.

"This stuff is for us, I can tell," Blaine rested his chin on his knees, "We just have to figure out what it is."

Kurt turned his gaze back to the table and suddenly he felt it too; there was a puzzle to all those things and it was meant for them. He felt unsettled; dizzy.

"Do you see it yet?" Blaine dropped his feet back down to the floor to lean over the tabletop again, "Kurt?"

* * *

 

"Kurt? Kurt?"

Kurt blinked against the harsh fluorescents; disoriented by the hum of the air conditioner and constant shuffle of feet. He reached up a hand to rub his eyes and realized he'd been covered with an ugly pale orange hospital blanket. The hospital. Blaine. He snapped awake immediately and stared intently at David, "How long was I asleep?"

"Only like twenty minutes or so," David assured him, "There's someone here who wants to talk to us, though, and I thought you might want to be awake for it."

Kurt followed David's gaze to the woman in front of them; he sat up straighter immediately and tried to rake a hand through his damp hair, "Hello, Mrs. Anderson; how is he?"

Despite her neatly pressed dress and carefully styled hair, she looked exhausted; her features were worn and her eyes red, "He's doing fine; they moved him to a regular room. It's going to be a while before we get any test results—"

"What tests?" Kurt mentally kicked himself for the interjection, but he couldn't help himself.

"Tests to see what caused the seizure," She replied vaguely, "It's going to be a while before we get results though, so I think it would be best if you all went home; I'll call you as soon as we find something out."

"No," Kurt said flatly, getting to his feet.

She blinked at him, and a flush of confusion turned her cheeks pinker beneath her blush.

"I want to see him," Kurt pressed. He did not wait for hours in his own personal purgatory to be turned so easily away.

"He's sleeping, Kurt; the nurses said he'll probably sleep all day," Her voice was not unkind but it remained firm.

"I don't care," He insisted.

"Kurt there really is no point to—"

"Please, Mrs. Anderson, I need to see him. I need to see for myself he's all right; I've had people I loved in the hospital before, and it's just—" He had not meant to get teary eyed in front of his boyfriend's mother, but he could feel the hot, familiar sting in the corners of his eyes, "They wouldn't even let me ride in the ambulance so I could stay with him. I just need to see him for myself. Please."

Her resolve faltered; she fidgeted with her wedding ring, "… okay."

"Thank you," He choked out. He resisted the urge to throw his arms around her in relieved gratitude.

"Call as soon as you know something, and give him our love," David squeezed Kurt's shoulder as he, too, got to his feet.

"I will; thank you, David—all of you—for everything," Kurt wondered absently what had happened to his coffee cup as he watched the others file out the door into the slow drizzle outside.

"Come along then," Elizabeth turned on her heel and began walking, a nervous energy that Kurt could almost feel preventing her from standing still in the waiting room any longer.

As he followed Elizabeth through the bright yellow doors of the ER, he felt a pressing tightness in his chest. The only thing Kurt hated more than waiting rooms was hospital rooms. He wasn't sure if his heart was thrumming in his ears with anticipation for seeing Blaine or the anxiety of being surrounded by curtains and gurneys and IV stands. He inhaled through his mouth (the aroma that came with the air through his nose would have had him retching), and listened to the click of Elizabeth's heels as she led him to an elevator.

"He's really very tired," She said again, still fidgeting with her ring, "The doctor said it's because of the seizure."

Kurt nodded but said nothing.

"John just left this morning for a business trip; he was in the air when I tried to call and tell him Blaine was here; I haven't gotten a hold of him yet, so it's just me for now," She was babbling and still twisting her ring left and then right over and over again.

Kurt wasn't sure what to say; he hadn't had much experience interacting with Blaine's mother outside of the typical social pleasantries, "I'm sure as soon as you get a hold of him to tell him what happened he'll get a flight back here."

She didn't seem to hear him; she stared at the display above their heads flashing the floor level in red numbers. When they hit three, the elevator lurched to a halt and the doors slid open, but Elizabeth remained where she was, "Kurt?"

He paused, half-in and half-out of the elevator, "Yes?"

"Have you…" She finally stopped twisting the ring, "Have you noticed anything off about Blaine lately?"

He didn't tell her he'd been wondering over the same thing. He didn't tell her that he couldn't remember who drove him to the hospital or how he ended up in his particular chair in the waiting room because he was too busy trying to pick up the pieces he must have missed leading up to Blaine's sudden collapse. He met her eyes for a brief second, "I can't think of anything off the top of my head… can you?"

"I don't know," She stepped slowly out of the elevator; she looked at him like there was something more she wanted to say, but then she was moving again and the moment passed, "… his room is this way."

Kurt followed her closely; still wary of the space around him despite being free of the emergency room.

She paused outside the door, "Try not to wake him, he's—"

"Tired. I know," Kurt wanted to shove past her and run into the room, but he remained still until she turned the knob quietly and beckoned him to follow.

Despite his best attempts to not disturb Blaine's sleep, the second Kurt slipped into a chair at the bedside, Blaine stirred, "Kurt?"

Kurt suppressed a fresh wave of tears; he'd never been so happy to see amber irises gazing back at his,  "Hey, you; how are you feeling?"

"Tired," Blaine's voice was hoarse and his eyes were red and bleary.

"Try and rest, Honey," His mother stepped up to the other side of the bed; she reached out to smooth his hair, "You've had a long day."

Blaine gave Kurt a groggy smile, "I had three shots and five stitches."

"Four needles in one day?" Kurt smiled and reached out to squeeze Blaine's hand, "Impressive."

"More like traumatizing," Blaine mumbled.

Kurt noted the little line of stitches near Blaine's temple. The 911 operator had been right of course—all that blood from a line no more than an inch across. The memory of clutching Blaine close and crying for help in the parking lot sent a shudder down his spine, but kept his tone cheery, "Go to sleep and try to forget about it. Dream about puppies or butterflies or something else pleasant."

"You?" Blaine murmured. His eyes were closed and he was already half-asleep.

Kurt glanced nervously at Elizabeth, but squeezed Blaine's hand a little tighter, "Sure, but only nice things, please."

A ghost of a smile crossed Blaine's face, "Always."

Silence blanketed the room, but it didn't bother Kurt; he didn't even mind Elizabeth's presence so near by. He folded his free arm on the bed and rested his cheek on it; the other hand still firmly gripped in Blaine's. He was not good with waiting rooms or emergency rooms, but holding someone's hand… Kurt Hummel was good at that.


	8. Chapter 7

"Are you okay in here?"

"Huh?" Kurt tore his eyes away from the black screen of the heart rate monitor to look at Blaine.

"You seem really upset, if you need to get out of here—"

"I'm perfect right where I am," Kurt squeezed Blaine's hand in his and sat up a little straighter in his chair.

Blaine glanced toward the hall where his mother was trying, once again, to get in contact with his father, "I know hospitals aren't easy for you, Kurt."

Kurt looked down toward the peach colored blanket under their hands, "They're all the same; have you ever noticed?"

Blaine looked around the room. The TV hanging in the corner, the mauve and green trimmed wallpaper; the plant hanging in the corner to try to give some semblance of cheer and life, "I haven't spent that much time in hospitals, but I'll take your word for it. You'd think they'd try for something a little less… bleak."

"I don't know that a change in interior decorating would make a hospital feel much more inviting," Kurt shrugged; he glanced down at his hand clasped in Blaine's; he frowned, "Why do you keep doing that?"

"Doing what?" Blaine tore his eyes from the window to look at Kurt with confusion.

Kurt motioned his free hand down at their clasped ones, "Fidgeting."

Blaine untangled his hand from Kurt's and held up the appendage for Kurt to see. His thumb jerked in that strange little ticking motion even without Kurt's hand beneath it; his previously mellow expression took on an edge of anxiety, "It's just been doing that; I'm not trying to."

Kurt carefully took hold of Blaine's wrist and laid his hand out on the bed; he touched his hand to the base of Blaine's thumb; felt the quick flurry of muscles contracting and releasing under the pads of his fingers, "For how long?"

Blaine shifted in the hospital bed, "Off and on for a while."

"What's a while?" Kurt looked up from Blaine's hand to his face; a wary frown crossed his features.

"A few weeks maybe?" Blaine pulled his hand out of Kurt's grasp and folded it protectively across his middle.

Kurt felt a twist of nerves in his stomach, "And you didn't think it was worth voicing a little concern over?"

"It didn't seem like that big of a deal at the time," Blaine bit his lip and stared down at his lap.

Kurt closed his eyes,  _you're being paranoid; relax,_ "We'll get it all sorted out soon enough."

When Kurt opened his eyes again, Blaine was chewing at the thumbnail of his good hand.

Kurt reached up and pulled his hand away from his mouth, "You always regret biting your nails; keep them away from your mouth."

Blaine smiled half-heartedly at him, "Old habits die hard."

Elizabeth breezed back into the room; she looked discontented, "I just got a hold of your father; he can't get back any earlier that tomorrow night."

"He doesn't have to come back early, Mom, it was just—"

"Don't you dare use the word 'just' and 'seizure' in the same sentence, Blaine Anderson, there is no 'just' to be had in that sentence," She fussed over the edge of his blanket as she spoke.

He closed his hand—Kurt noted it was the unaffected one—over his mother's, "I'm going to have another one if you don't calm down."

"That isn't funny," She huffed, but she closed her hand tightly over his.

"I'm not trying to be funny, you are truly exhausting me with your stressing though," Blaine smiled for her.

"If you're tired you should—"

"Mom," Blaine groaned, "I've slept for like seven hours straight; I just need you to calm down."

"You just wait until you're a par—" She trailed off; her face flushed.

"Until I have kids and they're trying to tell me to settle down and see how I feel then," Blaine finished for her.

Kurt felt the shift in the atmosphere as though it were a tangible temperature change. Blaine's voice would have sounded casual in anyone else's ears, but Kurt could hear the tension, the sad note to his syllables, begging for that final seal of acceptance.

Elizabeth nodded stiffly and glanced Kurt's way, "Yes."

Blaine stared down at their clasped hands quietly, "Mom, you know—"

A knock on the door cut him off; they all looked up to see a man in a white lab coat standing in the doorway, "Hello, I'm Dr. Cameron."

Kurt gave the doctor an appraising look. He's developed a knack for profiling doctors. This one had thick, grey hair atop a face that looks a bit younger than the silver locks on his head would suggest; he was averagely built with little else notable about him except the teal suit shirt peaking out from beneath his lab coat. Kurt approved of this doctor—experienced, well put-together; a pleasant smile. All good things.

Elizabeth was not so easily charmed, she frowned at him, "Where is Dr. Patel? She was in with us this morning."

Dr. Cameron nodded, unfettered by the slight wariness in her tone, "Dr. Patel asked I take over your son's case. She wanted a more senior opinion to her own, but of course if you'd like to continue with her, that is entirely up to you; I just want to run a few check ups to better assist her."

Elizabeth relaxed and nodded, "Oh, of course, I didn't mean to imply anything negative... I really am sorry; it's just been a long day."

"No need to apologize," The doctor waved a hand in the air casually; he turned his attention to Blaine and smiled amicably, "You must be Blaine, then."

"Pleasure to meet you, sir," Blaine returned the smile, but Kurt felt an alarm go off in his head as he watched the doctor. That tone. He remembered that tone.

"Mind if I run a few check ups? I know you've been through these already; I just wanted to check a few of them for myself; I won't make you re-answer everything, though; I promise," The doctor kept smiling, his tone all cheerful notes and regretful kindness.

More alarms. Kurt tensed enough beside the bed to draw the doctor's attention to him.

"And who might you be?"

"Kurt Hummel," Kurt stated tersely.

"My boyfriend," Blaine added, turning his smile toward Kurt.

"It's really supposed to be family only in here," Dr. Cameron said not unkindly.

"He was with Blaine when the seizure happened," Elizabeth supplied, "Blaine couldn't answer some of Dr. Patel's questions, maybe Kurt could help?"

Kurt looked to Blaine's mother in surprise. He saw the guilt still etched across her features form the earlier misstep; he recognized the attempt at redemption and welcomed it if it meant he could remain in the room.

The doctor looked between Blaine and Kurt's anxious faces before nodding slowly, "I suppose we can make an exception from time to time."

"Thank you," Kurt relaxed just a little in his seat.

The doctor nodded absently as he pulled a pen out of his breast pocket; he peered down at the clipboard in his hand before looking back up at Blaine, "This was your first seizure of this nature?"

"My first seizure period," Blaine replied.

The doctor nodded, "Do you remember the events leading up to it?"

Blaine frowned, "Um, sort of. We—me and some friends—went to get breakfast; I wasn't feeling well, so Kurt was going to take me home... I don't remember after that."

"It was raining really hard, but we wanted to get out of there, so we tried to run for my car. It happened in the parking lot." Kurt supplied. He didn't mention the confusion of Blaine's hand suddenly disappearing from his. The terror of finding him crumpled on the ground like a broken doll.

The doctor kept bobbing his head up and down, "It's common to forget the events surrounding a seizure. I'm looking at Dr. Patel's notes and it says here you've been getting headaches."

Blaine nodded his head but offered no further explanation.

"Five to six times a week for about three to four weeks?" The doctor looked from the paper to Blaine's face.

"You didn't tell me they were that frequent," Kurt murmured under his breath.

Blaine shrugged noncommittally, "I told you, I didn't think they were that big of a deal; I always get headaches when I'm stressed."

"In cases like these, Blaine, it's a good idea to mention anything that doesn't feel quite right," Dr. Cameron was scribbling something in his notes, "Just to try and see what we can learn about possible causes."

Blaine nodded, throwing a guilty glance Kurt's way.

"You told Dr. Patel no to dizziness, but yes to a little clumsiness as of late; care to elaborate?"

"I just…" Blaine shifted uncomfortably beneath the scrutiny of the other three. He let out a long breath, "I never used to mess up choreography."

Dr. Cameron didn't query over what Blaine did involving dancing; instead, he nodded, "Do you experience numbness in your legs or arms or is it disorientation?"

"I don't really know… it's like… like when you walk into a doorframe or catch your side on a countertop or something, and you're not even really sure how you managed to misinterpret the space, you just… did."

The doctor bobbed his head up and down yet again, scribbled some more. When he looked up, his attention was on Kurt, "Have you noticed any personality changes?"

"Personality changes?" Kurt echoed, his tone more surprised than he'd meant it to be.

"Mood swings, irritability; that sort of thing," the doctor kept his tone light, but it only made the edge sharper on Kurt's paranoia.

"Um, no, not really… we've been studying for finals, so if he got a little snippety, I guess I would have felt like it was all sort of natural." Kurt looked to Blaine for confirmation.

"He shouts," Elizabeth said abruptly, her gaze turned to Blaine, "You yelled at me for vacuuming your room while you were studying."

Blaine looked stricken, "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, Mom, I—"

She shook her head quickly, "I'm not angry, honey, I just thought it was worth mentioning. You hardly ever raise your voice at your father or me, and it was the third time in a week that you got angry with one of us."

"Dad wouldn't let me bring Kurt with to church on Sunday," Blaine gave his mother a pointed look, "I think my yelling was justified in that instance."

"We can talk about that later, Blaine," His mother spoke in a hushed tone, she gave a meaningful look toward the doctor before looking back at her son.

"All right, all right, so nothing incredibly drastic, but the change is there," the doctor nodded quickly to move on from the subject, "You also mentioned a few communicative type problems and maybe some short-term memory lapses; is there anything else unusual you didn't already report to Dr. Patel?"

Blaine shook his head; his expression stony.

Kurt felt dizzy with the number of anomalies he had somehow managed to miss-memory troubles, tripping up at practice, mood swings, the headaches-an entire list of oddities he should have caught onto. He would not let yet another thing slip notice, "Your hand, Blaine."

A wash of sudden remembrance colored Blaine's features; he held out his hand on the bed for the doctor to see almost timidly, "Oh, yeah... there's that."

The doctor put down the clipboard on the end of the bed to take Blaine's hand in his own. He watched the little flurry of movement silently; prodded Blaine's palm.

His mother looked on in horror, "Why is it happening?"

"Could be a localized seizure," The doctor murmured, turning Blaine's hand over between both of his, "How long has that been going on?"

"I'm not sure," Blaine looked nervously down at the appendage as though it weren't his own at all, but rather some thing he had just stumbled upon for the first time, "It comes and goes... Why, is it bad? I thought it was just a muscle spasm or something."

The doctor gently let go of Blaine's hand, his smile finally fading.

Kurt resisted the urge to bolt from the room. While the air of false cheer and feigned nonchalance had only set off a few precursory sirens in the depths of his memory, that look sent him into full lockdown mode.

There was news to be had. Bad news. Kurt found Blaine's hand and locked it in his own almost instinctively.

The doctor looked down at the clasped hands on the bed—Blaine's mother on one side and Kurt on the other—a clouded look of wary suspicions fell over Blaine's face; his voice sounded breathy in Kurt's ears, "What's wrong with me?"

"A team of doctors have been looking at your scans from earlier today, Blaine," the doctor spoke slowly; carefully; he looked between Blaine and his mother, "Based on what we've gathered, it would appear you have a tumor that—"

"What?" Elizabeth's voice sounded more like a sharp intake of breath than an actual word.

The doctor's face remained placid, his voice calm, "It's located in the frontal lobe of your brain and it's about—"

Kurt wasn't listening. His mind was filled with Blaine's hand suddenly limp in his own and a memory that couldn't be quieted.

 

* * *

He was six years old and he was having a wonderful time. He'd been abandoned with the secretary in a clinician's office while his parents went into the mysterious backrooms to "have a little talk with the doctors", but he didn't mind at all. Upon entering the office, his mother had presented with not only a new coloring book, but also a brand new box of crayons. Not just the regular twenty-four pack either, oh no, this was  _the_ crayon box: the one hundred twenty set complete with a novelty box to store them all in. Kurt was in heaven. He laid on his stomach behind the front desk and contentedly selected just the right shade of blue for Cinderella's dress—there were over eight different variations of light blue—it was a mentally consuming process for his little head, so he was surprised when his parents seemed to reappear only moments after having left him.

 

"Hey, buddy, how's the coloring coming?" His father knelt down beside him, a fond smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he watched Kurt replace his crayon back in the box with the utmost care.

"Good; I did this one for Mommy," He presented his mother with the finished Snow White picture that the secretary had helped him to cut from the book.

"Kurt, baby, that's beautiful; what color crayon was this one?" She pointed to a dwarf's hat.

"Razzmatazz," Kurt giggled over the name; he'd liked it the second he plucked it from the box.

His mother giggled too, and his father had a funny smile plastered across his face- it was too big; too forced, but Kurt didn't question it. As they drove home, Kurt clutched his crayon box as tightly as his father held his mother's hand in the front seat. When they arrived back at the house, his mother made him a peanut butter sandwich and they'd all sat together while he ate. His parents laughed when he said something silly, and asked him about what he wanted to get Rachel Berry for her birthday party, but they said little directly to one another. When he finished and asked permission to go up to his room and color, his parents had exchanged a look.

"Come sit with us in the family room for a bit, buddy, we have to talk to you about something." His father said, his voice gentle.

Kurt complied, but something was making him nervous, he felt the same way he did when there was the potential he was going to get in trouble. He hoped his parents hadn't found the Barbie he'd "borrowed" from Rachel's house and hid under his bed. He pulled himself up onto the couch, his little feet dangling down in the space above the floor while his mother settled in beside him and his father took up his usual residence in his armchair to face the two on the couch.

"Am I in trouble?" Kurt asked in a small voice.

"No, of course not!" Burt looked alarmed, "You didn't do anything wrong at all, kiddo."

Kurt nodded, reassured. But now he was confused. Why was his mother stroking his hair like that, and why was his father looking so sad?

"Kurt, today when we went to the doctor's office, your mom had some special tests done," His father spoke slowly; his voice thick.

Kurt bobbed his head up and down. He'd already known that was why they were at the special doctor's office so far away from their usual family practice.

"Some of those tests, though, buddy, they didn't look so good," Burt continued, glancing toward his wife.

"What was wrong with them?" Kurt looked up to his mother's face.

"They said I was sick, honey," His mother spoke sweetly, gently.

"Like with strep throat?" Kurt asked, looking for confirmation from either parent, "Noah Puckerman in Miss Lotty's class had strep throat last week."

"No, buddy," Burt let out a long breath, "Your mom... she has cancer. Do you know what that is?"

Kurt nodded slowly. Old people got cancer—his great aunt Rose and his Grandpa Frank had had cancer, but he had never met them—he'd only heard from relatives of their existence. They'd been dead before his birth.

"When someone has cancer, they have to take medicine that can make them very, very sick, but in the end it makes them feel better," His mother explained, her hand still warm on the top of his head, "and sometimes they have to do surgery to get some of the cancer out."

"Do you need surgery?" Kurt asked in a small voice. He was still trying to grapple with the concept of someone not old and in his immediate vicinity having cancer.

She nodded, "Yes, I do."

He felt his lip begin to tremble because, while cancer was confusing, he knew about surgery. Surgery meant scary things and big knives.

"It's going to be okay, though, Kurt," his father's voice shook with the same threat of tears that stung Kurt's eyes, "The doctors are going to do a very good job and we'll take good care of mom while she gets better, won't we?"

He'd nodded his head up and down, but the tears fell anyway. It was hard to keep them at bay with the comforting smell of his mother's perfume so near and his father's strong hand on his knee.

Burt moved to the couch to sit on Kurt's other side and the little family hugged one another tightly. Kurt felt safe there, cocooned between his parents' warm embraces. When they told him everything would be okay, he believed them with every fiber of his being.

 

* * *

He tried to snap himself back into the moment, but the present was no better than the memory.

 

Elizabeth was crying; the doctor was still talking in that placid tone—about surgery and tumor size and treatment options; something about smaller outcroppings, less of a concern… The world sounded the same way it did when, as a child, Kurt would lie back in the bathtub—nothing exposed to the air except his toes so the noise around him was all muted notes and murky, distorted sounds; like the soundtrack to the world had been slowed, but everyone moved madly on. He turned his gaze to Blaine. Blaine sat ramrod straight with unblinking eyes and a quiet mouth.

Kurt clamped his hand down tight, and Blaine looked over at him slowly, lost in the same underwater murkiness Kurt was.

Elizabeth and the doctor spoke—circle upon circle of talks about Blaine and his father and their health care plans and timelines. Kurt and Blaine stared at one another in muted confusion because this wasn't a part of their plan. This wasn't the way life was supposed to go.

"Blaine," The doctor broke into their crystalline bubble of silence.

Blaine turned his attention back to the doctor.

"Blaine," the doctor said his name again as though it could snap Blaine from his daze, "We're very good at what we do here; we have top of the line neurosurgeons and an excellent oncology department; you're in good hands. But we need to be aggressive with this thing, which means we need to act now to get a treatment plan going for you. Do you understand that?"

Blaine blinked at him and nodded; his voice sounded detached; dreamy, "When are you going to do the surgery?"

"We can get you in as early as tomorrow morning," Dr. Cameron reached out a hand to squeeze Blaine's shoulder, "I know this is scary; I know this is sudden—"

"I graduated yesterday," Blaine looked up at the doctor. As though desperate for him to understand, he repeated, "Yesterday."

The doctor nodded, "I know, but I'm afraid life doesn't let us choose when bad things happen, and even if we could, there's never a good time for these things. All we can do now is fight this as hard as we can, but that has to be your choice, Blaine, your mother and I can say whatever we want, but you're eighteen; the final call on how we deal with this is yours."

Blaine closed his eyes and held very still for a long moment, he nodded slowly, "…okay."

"Okay?" The doctor repeated.

Blaine opened his eyes and nodded again.

"We'll schedule you for the morning then;" Dr. Cameron scribbled another note down on his clipboard, "I'll send someone down to give you a bit of an orientation on how the procedure will go."

"Thank you for your time," Blaine mumbled.

"A word in the hall, please, Mrs. Anderson?" The doctor tucked his pen back into his pocket.

She nodded, but seemed reluctant to let go of Blaine's hand, "I'll be right back, honey; after I talk to Dr. Cameron, I'm going to call your father and see if he can't get an earlier flight back."

Blaine nodded; his hand lay lifeless on the bed when she finally let go.

"I'll see you soon, Blaine," Dr. Cameron shut the door quietly behind him and Elizabeth.

The silence that covered the room felt oppressive. For a moment, Kurt felt like he was back in his dream from the waiting room, but now the pieces on the table had some semblance of order. The picture it created was an ugly thing.

"They're going to cut open my head," Blaine's voice split the air like a knife and Kurt felt a twisting, hurting something in his chest when he looked up to meet Blaine's eyes.

Unshed tears clung to his dark lashes and his jaw worked with the effort to hold back his near-hysteria.

"They'll fix it," Kurt's voice was reedy and tight, "They'll do the surgery and it'll—"

"They're going to fucking take a knife to my skull and cut apart my brain, Kurt," Blaine's voice caught in his throat, "Are you understanding that at all?"

"Yes," Kurt felt hot tears slipping out of his control, burning hot tracks down his cheeks.

"I—I—" Blaine looked around the room as though hoping for a hidden camera; someone to jump out and declare it was all an awful joke. When nothing appeared, he met Kurt's eyes again; his expression all terror and anguish, "Kurt, I have cancer."

Kurt nodded his head—he didn't have any words to offer to deflect the ugly diagnosis or any of its implications—all he could do was climb up on the bed beside Blaine and hold him close while he dissolved into tears and terror. Kurt wrapped his arms around him tighter, tighter, tighter, "It's going to be okay; shhh, it's going to be okay."

When words offered no solace, Kurt turned to the one thing he knew always spoke to Blaine. Even after Blaine was quiet in Kurt's arms and the only remnant of his terror was the vice-like grip he maintained on his hand, Kurt kept singing. It comforted him, too, to feel the notes flowing out the way they always did. The way they always would.

_Waiting for your call, I'm sick, call I'm angry_

_Call I'm desperate for your voice_

_Listening to the song we used to sing_

_In the car, do you remember_

_Butterfly, Early Summer_

_It's playing on repeat,_

_Just like when we would meet_


	9. Chapter 8

Kurt had seen Blaine's surgery marked on a white board when he'd gone to fetch coffee for himself and Elizabeth. "B. Anderson., Craniotomy, Dr. Cameron/Dr. Borgia, 7:00, OR3". He had stopped in his tracks to stare up at the sloppy green writing tucked between an L. Rodriguez having a tracheotomy performed and a C. Cornell having a laminectomy. Two hours. Two hours until B. Anderson in OR3 was a reality. He barely registered the white lab coats that paused beside him to stare up at the board with equal fascination before turning on their heel and moving on with the early morning rush. He watched as a nurse strode up and erased an N. Ledens from a slot below Blaine's. He wondered briefly if the surgery had been cancelled or if something had happened to the patient but then quickly stifled the thought.

 _All in a days work for the people here_ , he assured himself and tore his eyes away from the board to hurry back to Blaine's room, the Styrofoam cups were quickly cooling in his hands. He balanced a cup precariously atop the other while he turned the handle and carefully pushed the door open.

Everything was exactly the way he had left it down to the air in the room that seemed to hum with tension.

Blaine held a grey plastic hand mirror; he tilted it slowly side to side, regarding the top of his head as though trying to commit it to memory.

At her son's request, Elizabeth had scavenged for the mirror until one of the nurses had produced one from a desk drawer along with an electric razor. She had returned to the room, pulled a chair silently to the center of the floor and regarded Blaine sadly. Blaine had slipped out of his hospital bed—a visible shudder shaking his shoulders when his bare feet touched cold linoleum—and shuffled over to sit down. His mother handed him the mirror wordlessly and moved to stand behind him; one hand held the razor limply at her side, the other squeezed his shoulder, "Whenever you're ready."

It had been nearly twenty minutes since Kurt left the room, and still Blaine stared into the silvery glass.

Elizabeth met Kurt's eyes and he saw the hurt there; the torture at having to be the one to do this to her son. Her hand dropped from Blaine's shoulder to take the offered cup with a quiet voice, "Thank you."

Kurt watched Blaine quietly before turning his gaze back to Elizabeth. She was clutching the cup close to her chest, watching Blaine with nearly heartbroken eyes.

Kurt set his own cup down on the window ledge, "Let me."

She and Blaine both looked at him with surprise. She hesitated for the briefest of moments, "… are you sure—"

"I'm positive," Kurt extended a hand toward her.

She rolled the thing in her hand; testing the feel of it there for one more minute before handing it over to Kurt.

"Could you go call Dad again, Mom?" Blaine murmured. It was the nicest way he could think to ask her to leave.

She looked even more reluctant, "Are you sure?"

"Positive," Blaine nodded.

She moved to stand in front of him, stroke a tentative hand through his dark curls and press a kiss to the top of his head. She stepped out quickly, but Kurt didn't miss the tears already slipping down her cheeks as she made her way to the door.

Kurt stood silently beside Blaine's chair. He swayed a little on his feet from near exhaustion, but remained as still he could.

Blaine lowered the mirror and rubbed his eyes—despite his nearly daylong sleep, he had remained as restless as Kurt throughout the night; falling into fitful naps only to wake disoriented and frightened. He stared down at the grey plastic back of the mirror until his vision blurred with tears. He clasped a hand over his mouth when a sob hitched in his throat.

Kurt knelt down in front of him. He lay the razor down on the ground and rested both hands on Blaine's knees, "Hey."

Blaine brushed the tears from his cheeks roughly, "I'm sorry; I know this is petty and stupid and I—"

"It's not stupid," Kurt squeezed his knees.

Blaine lifted the mirror again and touched his other hand to his head; traced the space between his ear and hairline.

"Your hair grows faster than anyone I know," Kurt assured him, "It'll be grown back in by, like, tomorrow."

"Chemo." Blaine stated bluntly.

"Some people don't lose their hair from chemo," Kurt folded his arms across Blaine's lap and rested his chin on them, "but if you do, then we'll just have to wait for it to come back when you're in remission."

There was a long pause. Blaine rested a hand on Kurt's head and continued to stare into the mirror. Kurt remained quiet; waiting.

"You'll still love me when I'm as bald as Chris Daughtry?" Blaine finally broke the silence. He tried to make his tone light, but his mouth was set in a frown and his voice wavered.

Kurt smiled up at him, "I happen to think Chris Daughtry is very cute."

Blaine met Kurt's eyes for a brief second before looking away again, unconvinced. He blinked back a fresh set of tears that were already stinging the corners of his eyes and making his throat tight, "Let's just get this over with."

Kurt didn't move right away, he watched the sad look on Blaine's face and made a decision. He took in a deep breath, and when he let it out, his voice came out with it; quiet but steady, "I remember when my mother's hair fell out."

Blaine immediately looked up to meet his eyes again.

Kurt wanted to look away, the memory of his mother paired with looking into Blaine's familiar honey colored eyes was overwhelming, but he held his gaze as best he could, "She had beautiful hair—she used to buy those little packs of colored barrettes just so I could brush her hair and put them in all over the place; she even let me put one in my hair once when we were having a day for just the two of us," Kurt stood slowly, picking the razor up off the ground as he got to his feet, "After her hair was gone, she started buying those little jewels with the sticky backs, and we'd decorate bandanas for her to wear."

Kurt reached out and pressed his hand into Blaine's hair like he had so many times before. He memorized the feeling of his fingers getting tangled in those dark curls before retracting his hand and moving to stand behind Blaine, all the while talking, reliving that moment with his mother in the bathroom. There were times he forgot the feeling of her arms around him or what she looked like when she smiled, but over the hum of the razor as he clicked it on, he could smell the faint chemical scent of drying nail polish and feel the carpet of his parent's room beneath his legs. He continued talking as the first dark locks fell to the ground beside his feet.

* * *

_All that I know is_

__I'm breathing_ _ __now  
_ _

He was lying on the floor, his feet kicked up in the air above him so he could admire the polish his mother had put on his toes without him even needing to ask. He had sat quietly at her side while she had applied a pretty shade of pink to her own toes.

"Your father thinks this color was made for sixteen year old girls," She told him with a conspiratorial smile, "he says it looks like bubble gum."

"I like it," Kurt leaned in even closer to watch, "it looks happy."

Her smile widened, "I think it does, too."

She had finished her final coat and then lifted his feet into her lap without explanation and unscrewed the cap on the little glass bottle once again. He'd watched with sheer delight as she touched the brush to each of his toes carefully before blowing on them.

He remained as still as he could, ever mindful of his shiny pink nails, while she did her make up in the bathroom. It was her and his father's date night—a night Kurt both loathed and adored. He hated being left at one of his dad's friend's houses where he was condemned to playing with Tonka trucks and answering endless questions about why he didn't want to join a baseball team, but he lived for sitting in the bathroom doorway and watching his mother get ready. She would spill out her make up bag across the counter, turn on a CD, and sing to him while she curled her hair and put on her mascara. He loved poking through the tubes and bottles on the counter and helping her zip the back of her dress, but most of all he loved listening to her sing.

He rubbed at his face when the scent of hairspray tickled his nose and closed his eyes while he listened to the sweet sound of her voice. He knew the sounds of her getting ready—unscrewing the lids from eye shadow containers, a brush running through her hair, the spritz of her perfume bottle; the plug of the curling iron being shoved into the outlet.

He took comfort in the familiar routine until a soft gasp broke the normal flow of sound and then her voice, trembling, "Kurt, honey, could you go get your father for me?"

"Why?" He opened his eyes and rolled onto his stomach to look at her; she had one hand clasped over the back of her head, the other closed tightly against her chest.

"Please, honey, just do it for mommy. Tell him to come up here," She didn't look at him; her eyes were glued to her reflection in the bathroom mirror.

He pushed himself into a sitting position and squinted at her clasped hand where familiar tendrils of warm brown hair peaked out over the edges of her fingers. His eyes went wide and he scrambled to his feet. He tripped over himself trying to get to the stairs, "Dad! Dad! Mom needs you quick!"

"What's wrong? What happened?" Burt was rushing up the steps before Kurt could even make it to the first landing.

"I don't know, I think," Kurt tried to catch a breath in his tight chest as he turned around to dash after his father back into the bedroom, "I-I think something happened to her hair."

Burt slowed his pace. A look passed over his face—sad; calm—as he made his way to the bathroom. She was leaned against the counter much the same way Kurt had left her, but her eyes were wet and red.

Kurt peaked around the doorway; frightened and confused as his parents gazed at one another.

Burt gently took hold of his wife's wrist and pulled her hand down from its place on her head.

Kurt bit down hard on his lip to keep from crying out in despair over the bald patch of skin where a lovely wave of brown hair had once been, but his father had no such reaction. He used both hands to tip his wife's head down and pressed a kiss to the spot.

To Kurt's utter shock, when his mother tipped her head back up, though her eyes were still wet, she smiled at her husband; squeezed both his hands between hers, "Will you help me get rid of the rest of it? I don't want to walk around with just one big patch missing."

And so, with music still playing and Kurt lying on the floor rubbing a finger over one of his ruined toenails, his parents had set to work cutting her hair and murmuring stories to one another Kurt could not quite hear.

It was like any other date night. His father teased his mother about the number of heels she tried on; she chided him for spoiling his dinner when he went to get a snack out of the cupboard; they both admired Kurt's toes after his mother mended the ruined one with a fresh coat of paint. The only difference of the night was that, when it came time to leave the house, Kurt was brought along to dinner.

* * *

_I want to change the world, instead I sleep._

_I want to believe in more than you and me.  
_

The silence seemed strangely loud when Kurt clicked off the razor. Blaine sat stock still, his eyes directed at the wall.

Kurt walked around the chair and reached out to brush a stray lock of hair from Blaine's shoulder, "You know what the strange thing is?"

Blaine shook his head, but his eyes went down to his lap. He had his arms folded across his middle tightly as though he felt naked; exposed.

"After that very first time, I didn't really notice that her hair was gone," Kurt tilted his head; smiled, "I always thought it was her hair that made her so beautiful to me, but it wasn't. It was just…  _her."_

Blaine looked up at him again, his eyes misty and his jaw set tight.

Kurt cupped Blaine's face in his hands and pressed a kiss to the top of his head before pulling away to look into his eyes, "It's the same for you, too. I'm looking at you and nothing's different."

Blaine's hand came up to catch the back of Kurt's neck; he pulled him in and kissed him deeply; his voice shook as he broke away from the kiss, "Thank you."

Kurt tipped his forehead in against Blaine's. They remained that way—heads touching and hands clutched together—until Elizabeth was slipping back in the door. Her hand clenched down a little tighter around her phone—the only sign of distress Kurt could note—before she moved over to Blaine and pulled him into a tight hug.

Kurt stood quietly by while Elizabeth held her son close and murmured quiet things that Kurt was sure she had whispered to Blaine as a little boy when he awoke from a nightmare, "Sweet boy, darling boy; Everything is going to be all right."

Kurt swallowed down the knot he could feel forming in his throat, and, in the end, looked away from the display of affection until it had passed.

They sat together and talked as the minutes until seven ticked by too quickly.

"Your father will be on the next plane home," Elizabeth had spoken assuredly, as though her husband's mere presence would somehow make things easier.

Blaine had nodded his head absently; a hand constantly going up to touch the side of his head.

Kurt watched the clock religiously until it was time. The minutes seemed to flow to quickly; sand between Kurt's fingers until, all at once, he wasn't sitting in the metal folding chair picking at the peeling blue paint on the leg; he was walking alongside Blaine's bed, trying to look calm and collected as they halted at the doors of the OR.

"This is our stop," the intern pushing the bed smiled pleasantly at Kurt and Elizabeth, signaling them to say their goodbyes and clear out of his way.

Elizabeth leaned down and kissed Blaine's forehead. For once, she didn't have to rub away a lipstick print; her makeup had been gone from within the hour she had first entered the hospital, "Mommy loves you, sweetheart; I'll be with you again as soon as I can, all right?"

In any other circumstance, Blaine would have groaned over his mother's coddling; rolled his eyes at her sentimentality. Instead he looked up at her with frightened eyes and nodded his head almost imperceptibly.

When Kurt reached out a hand, Blaine's fingers locked so tightly around his it hurt; his voice trembled as he looked up at him, "I'm scared."

 _Me too._ Kurt forced a smile; squeezed Blaine's hand back gently, "Don't be."

Blaine didn't lessen the strength of his grip, "I… I love you."

"I know you do," Kurt knew that tone. It was a just-in-case-I-can't-say-it-again sentiment; a sad message offered when one fears the worst. Kurt pulled Blaine's hand up to his mouth and brushed a quick kiss across his knuckles, "And I expect you to tell me again when this is all over."

Blaine's hold on his hand loosened just a little; the smallest of smiles shadowed his mouth, "You're not going to tell me you love me too?"

"No, I'm not." Kurt wanted terribly to press a kiss to Blaine's mouth; sob the words out a thousand times over, but instead he settled for just holding his hand a little bit tighter, "I'll tell you after the surgery."

Blaine tried for a better smile, "I'll see you later?"

Kurt gave Blaine's hand one last squeeze in answer, but as soon as his palm was cold and empty and the doors were swinging closed, he felt a twist of anxiety in his chest; a sensation that only grew stronger as he and Elizabeth were led to a waiting area. He sat a few chairs down from her and slumped low in the seat. He tried to slip into a nap, but, despite his exhaustion, sleep would not find him. He opened his eyes and looked over at Elizabeth.

She was entirely her own person apart from her husband and her son: green eyes, blond hair the color of honey; only her tiny frame insinuated her DNA had had anything to do with Blaine's creation. He had always been a smaller carbon copy of his father in Kurt's eyes, but, watching her in the waiting room, Kurt couldn't help but note the way the set of her shoulder's matched Blaine's when he was stressed, the same tired expression, the same frown line between her eyebrows. Looking down at her hands, though, he is reminded of his father in a similar waiting room with similar limp, defeated hands hanging off the armrests of his chair.

* * *

_But all that I know is I'm breathing._

_All I can do is keep breathing._

_All we can do is keep breathing now.  
_

He hadn't wanted to bring anything with to the hospital, nor had he wanted to lay a finger on his breakfast that morning. But, at his mother's request, he had nibbled at the edge of a waffle and brought the coloring book and crayons along with for the long wait ahead.

Kurt splayed out on his stomach on the floor, but as he flipped through the black and white pages of the book, he was uninspired. His thoughts were on his mother. His mother who he had last seen on a hospital bed, blowing him a kiss as she was pushed away through sliding doors, leaving him to wait with his father. Kurt had strained his ears to listen when his parents and the doctor had first spoken to one another before she was wheeled away, but it was no use, even the words he could hear meant nothing to him. Kurt didn't know what an ICU was. He didn't know what a mastectomy was. He knew surgeries meant cutting people open and that fact alone, no matter how many stickers the doctor offered him or how often his mother kissed away his tears, terrified little Kurt Hummel. He paused on a picture of Belle—his mother's very favorite princess— and decided that it would have to do.

"Color me a picture with as many crayons as you can," she had told him that morning from her seat in the car, "I want to hang it by my bed and look at it all the time after the surgery."

He started the slow process of selecting colors that could go together. A cerulean blue, a shade of orange that looked like sunsets; a lavender the same shade as the sweater his mother had been wearing that morning. On and on he lined up the crayons and started to color in the dress; the books on the shelves; the talking candlestick. He was slow and careful to stay within the lines, but even after the picture was finished, no one had come for them.

He got to his feet with every intention of showing off his project, but upon looking at his father, he was suddenly unsure. Burt was slumped low in his seat, his shoulders hunched and his hands dangling limp off the end of the armrests. Kurt thought he looked…scared. But no, his father did not get scared so he must have misread the expression. He approached hesitantly all the same and held out the picture without a word.

Burt had to rub his eyes and shake his head before he could smile at his son, "That's real nice, Kurt. You did great."

Kurt turned the picture to inspect himself, "Do you think mommy will like it?"

"Yeah, buddy," Burt swallowed hard, "I'm sure your mom will love it."

Kurt nodded, reassured. He smiled at his father, "You can color one for her, too, if you want. You can pick any of the pictures… well, not the Prince Eric one, but any of the others."

"That… that's okay, kiddo," Burt set his jaw; bit his lip.

"Dad?" Kurt spoke timidly. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, not sure of what to make of his father's demeanor.

His father suddenly reached out to him and pulled him gruffly onto his lap. He wrapped his arms around him tightly and nuzzled his chin into Kurt's hair.

"Dad?" Kurt spoke again; nervous tears burned his eyes as he tried to look up at his father's face.

"I just need to hold onto you for a bit, okay buddy?" His voice sounded strange—tight and choked. Not at all the calm laughing notes Kurt was used to.

"Sure," Kurt whispered. At first he remained tense on his father's lap, but gradually he relaxed, melting into the contact and letting the previous tension that he hadn't even realized was there melt from his neck and back. He held the picture to his chest with one hand and gripped his father's arm with the other. Despite his fears, despite his confusion and the sudden upheaval of his life, Kurt felt safe; anchored in his father's arms.

* * *

_All that I know is I'm breathing_

_All I can do is keep breathing  
_

He watched Elizabeth for a moment longer before getting up out of his seat and crossing the room. He slipped down into the seat beside her and caught her hand in his before he could over think the matter.

She startled and looked down at their clasped hands with hazy eyes, but she did not let go. She looked up to his face; met his eyes.

"Sometimes it's nice to just have someone to hold onto," Kurt spoke quietly in response to her questioning gaze.

She studied his face before looking back down to their hands, "You know, we never knew how lonely he had been until after he met you."

It was Kurt's turn to be surprised; confused. He waited quietly for her to continue, but she didn't. Instead, she squeezed her hand tighter around his and went back to staring toward the doorway.

The minutes turned into hours, and Kurt's hand remained fitted in Elizabeth's. Neither one of them spoke.

They watched people pass the doorway— a pair of doctors talking and drinking coffee; nurses with armloads of charts; a patient pushing an IV stand—finally a familiar face underneath a blue surgeon's cap turned into the room; smiled at both of them.

Elizabeth finally released Kurt's hands as she clambered to her feet, "How is he?"

"Do you mind if I talk about this in front of him?" Dr. Cameron motioned a hand toward Kurt.

"Of course not," Elizabeth paled, "Did something happen? Is he all right?"

The doctor nodded quickly, "Oh, yes, he's in the ICU recovering; I just didn't want to relay any information you preferred to keep private."

"Consider him family," Kurt looked over at her in surprise, but she wasn't looking at him; her attention was fully on the doctor.

"He did well," Dr. Cameron began again, "the tumor was, however, bigger than we had originally anticipated and the borders of it weren't well defined, but we got out the majority of it."

"What about the rest?" Elizabeth pressed.

"We're about as positive as we can be that it's cancer, but we'll run some tests anyway. Then we'll do a combination of radiation and chemotherapy as soon as he's recovered from the operation to take care of it; if for some reason the cancer's still too aggressive, we can do a second surgery, but lets focus on right now," the doctor smiled, "He won't be allowed any visitors for the next twenty four hours or so. I suggest you both go home. Shower, rest; get something to eat, it'll do you both good."

"He's my son, I can't just leave him here." Elizabeth looked over the doctor's shoulder toward the door as though she might be able to sneak around him and run to Blaine's bedside.

"He's in perfectly capable hands, Mrs. Anderson, and you'll do him more good if you're well rested," the doctor touched a comforting hand to her arm, "We'll call you immediately if anything changes in his condition."

She nodded reluctantly and watched him leave the room, moving on to another surgery, another family to soothe.

Kurt had wanted to protest as well—insist that he'd never be able to sleep or eat anyway if he were to leave—but his words stuck in his throat and he remained mute and hurting. He felt a soft, delicate hand brush the back of his.

"Leave me your phone number; I'll call you as soon as we find out anything," Elizabeth pulled a little address book from her purse and handed it over to Kurt.

He threw her a grateful look before neatly printing his number in one of the lined pages and handing it back.

"Thank you, Kurt; for everything," her fingers closed over his almost imperceptibly for a moment and then she was gone out the door; her heels tapping down the linoleum and out of earshot.

Kurt followed in her wake, turning to look at the OR schedule only long enough to register that Blaine's name had been erased. Despite having almost no memory of entering the hospital, Kurt weaved around cars on autopilot until he stood in front of familiar black exterior of his Navigator. He climbed into the driver's seat and realized his previously rain-soaked clothes had dried stiff and wrinkled against his body. He pulled at the hem of his shirt for a moment before giving up the endeavor and pushing the key into the ignition. His driving was punchy at best—he flew through intersections so fast his head snapped back against the headrest with a thwack, only to be lurched forward again when he hit the breaks too hard at stop lights. His hands gripped the wheel too tight and he felt his empty stomach twisting in knots.

The further he got from the hospital, from the past twenty four hours that felt too horrible, too nightmarish, to possibly have been real, the more he felt his careful resolve crumbling. Blaine was sick just like Kurt's mother had been. Blaine was unconscious somewhere in a hospital room with his head freshly sewn back together. Kurt tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. His lips felt chapped. The fog of his day lifted like a drug-induced haze, revealing more and more: imperfections and aches that looked too sharp; ideas that burned too brightly, too loudly in his ears.  _Blaine was sick. Blaine was sick. Blaine was sick._

He pulled into his driveway, drained and trembling. He had ignored every text message and call sent his way until a drained battery had finally turned the screen black for good. He would have hours of explaining to do—to the Warblers, his friends, his father— but Kurt couldn't bring himself to care. His eye settled on the familiar blue duffle bag sitting in the passenger's seat. Kurt pulled it over into his lap and carefully pulled the contents out until he was holding the wrinkled white suit shirt in his hands; feeling the soft fabric beneath his fingers. It couldn't have all just happened so fast. It was not possible for he and Blaine to have been playing beside Nick's pool and then to have Blaine coming out of brain surgery barely forty-eight hours later. It was too much; too dark, too macabre a notion to set down in the lives of teenagers. Kurt shoved the shirt gruffly back into the bag before scrambling from his car, too claustrophobic in the closed off space of the Navigator. He walked on weary feet to the front door and slipped into the house.

The door had barely slammed shut when his father rounded the corner, his face already set in a furious scowl, "Where the hell have you been? We've been worried sick looking for you! You didn't answer your phone, we couldn't even get a hold of Blaine to see if he knew where—"

"I'm sorry," Kurt whispered; seeing his father sent another deep fault line through him.

His father's scowl slowly softened then morphed into a look of anxious concern as he took in Kurt's wrinkled clothes and pale face, "Hey, you look like you've been hit by a truck. What happened?"

Seeing that face—the face that had comforted him through this process already once before—sent the final line through Kurt's careful exterior and shattered the whole thing; his voice came out a strangled sob, "Dad."

Without so much as a second question, Burt rushed to him, gathered him in his arms and hugged him tight.

Kurt sobbed into his embrace and clutched at his father's shirt; he wanted to tell him everything—about the parking lot, the waiting room, the surgery; Blaine—but all that would come out was a nearly incoherent sob, "I just need you t-to h-h-hold m-me f-for a little b-b-b-bit."

"As long as you need, buddy," His father hugged him closer, "I can stay right here as long as you need."

_All we can do is keep breathing_


	10. Chapter 9

"How often do you think they cast a stage newcomer as female lead on Broadway?" Rachel was sitting cross-legged at the end of Finn's bed, "I mean, it's not like I'm a  _newcomer_ really; I have tons of experience as an actress, dancer, and singer. That's much more than what a lot of stars could boast when they were starting out. I mean, I practically wouldn't even need training—I've studied some of the biggest stars of all time and read their memoirs so that I'm well rehearsed in all their tricks, and—"

"Mhm," Finn was lying on the bed, throwing a basketball up in the air and catching it again against his chest. He half-listened to Rachel's endless stream of chatter, careful to pick up on every few words so he could repeat them back to her and nod his head enthusiastically so she would believe he was listening.

"Finn!" Rachel glowered down at him, "I asked for your opinion."

"Oh, um, right," Finn struggled for a moment before bobbing his head up and down, "Lots of experience, practically on their same level already."

Her frown deepened; apparently he hadn't been listening closely enough, "Were you listening to me at all? I asked if—"

They heard the door slam; Burt's yelling. Kurt must have finally made it home.

Finn couldn't help but smirk just a little, Kurt was never the one in trouble so it was nice to hear Burt's fury directed toward him for a change. Not to mention the fact that the sudden burst of sound had silenced Rachel and maybe even gotten him off the hook. He listened quietly to the sounds downstairs, but then all at once it was over before it had even really started. Finn sat up in his bed, straining to hear more, but the yelling was definitely over.

"Is that…" Rachel was listening too, "Is that Kurt crying?"

Finn didn't answer. He kicked his feet over the edge of the bed and made for the doorway quickly. Kurt had been missing for two days—Finn had initially chalked it up to him having a good time with the Warblers and not wanting to return home. After all, it wasn't like Burt ever really punished him for anything, and Kurt had a tendency to do as he pleased. But, no matter how independent he deemed himself, it wasn't like Kurt to not call home and check in, or at least send a quick  _'I'm fine, be back later'_  text. What if someone had hurt him? Stopped him from making it home when he should have? And Blaine hadn't been answering any of their calls either… Finn quickened his pace down the steps, nearly tripping on the last three.

They found Burt and Kurt huddled in the entryway; Kurt was collapsed in his father's arms, sobbing and choking on incoherent words.

"What happened?" Finn demanded, crouching down beside them to try and get a look at Kurt's face, "Did someone hurt you? I swear to God, Kurt, I'll go find—"

Kurt was shaking his head, but when he opened his mouth to speak, all that came out were more sobs; more slurred consonants and vowels.

Rachel knelt down too, "Kurt, tell us—"

"Leave him alone," Burt said gently, pressing his hand into the back of his son's head, "He just needs a minute. Let him get this out of his system."

Finn slowly eased himself back off his heels until he was sitting on the ground, watching Kurt intently for any signs of so much as a bruise.

Rachel stood and went to the kitchen without explanation.

When Kurt's sobs muted down to hiccups, Burt slowly eased him to his feet and led him to the couch.

Finn stood awkwardly in front of the couch, but Rachel went straight to the spot beside Kurt. She offered a glass of ice water.

Kurt stared at the glass blankly, still sniffling.

"Drink it, it'll make you feel better," Rachel said quietly, pressing the cup into his hand.

He did as instructed, tipping the glass back and sipping from it slowly. His voice was gravelly and quiet, "Thank you."

Burt stood in front of him, his arms folded across his chest, "You ready to tell us what's wrong, bud?"

Kurt looked around at them with red-rimmed eyes before looking back down to his lap, "It's Blaine."

"Did you guys break up?" Rachel's eyes went wide.

Kurt shook his head, "No."

"Did you have a really big fight?" Rachel ventured again.

Kurt just shook his head, his eyes brimming with tears that simply would not stop.

"You need to help us out here, buddy, we can't read your mind," Burt knelt down and squeezed a comforting hand on Kurt's shoulder.

"He's sick," Kurt choked out; he swallowed to steady his voice, "Blaine's sick. Like mom was. He has cancer."

Burt's hand slipped from Kurt's shoulder. He stared at Kurt mutely.

Rachel let out a gasp as though she'd been slapped.

Finn felt…funny; like he was dizzy, "Blaine can't… he can't have cancer; he's eighteen."

The others ignored him. Burt met Kurt's eyes, "What kind of cancer?"

"He," Kurt let out a shuddery breath, "It's a tumor…or tumors, I don't really know. In his head. They did surgery this morning and sent me home until he can see people again."

Burt nodded his head slowly, but said nothing.

Rachel had clapped a hand over her mouth, as though she was afraid of the sound that might break free if she didn't physically lock it in.

Burt recovered first, "Will he need chemo?"

Kurt nodded, he spilled out everything he knew to them- The warning signs; the seizure; the surgery. He was reasonably pulled together until he neared the end of his explanations. The tears started fresh as he dropped his face into his hands, "What if he doesn't wake up? W-what if th-they can't f-f-fix him?"

Finn sank down to the floor, not trusting his suddenly wobbly knees to support him. Rachel and Burt both hovered around Kurt, offering empty reassurances and petting his hair, but Finn's mind was buzzing, his head spinning. Blaine was the sun that Kurt's world revolved around, and Finn saw it as his duty to protect them both. Not that either one needed any particular protection, Kurt was all snark and bitchiness and Blaine had proven he was more than willing to step into a fight even if he had no idea what he was doing.

 

* * *

"Could you please get us some ice, Finn?" Kurt stepped through the door, his clothes disshelved and his hair still dripping with green ice.

 

Finn glanced up from his place on the couch and did a double take as he jumped to his feet, "What the hell happened?"

Blaine was holding a tissue to his nose that was quickly being stained red, a glower on his face as Kurt tugged him along toward the kitchen, "We got in a fight."

"Correction,  _you_ got in a fight," Kurt rolled his eyes, "I was more than happy for us to just go home."

Blaine released the tissue from his nose, ignoring the blood that immediately began slipping down his face, "They deserved it! People can't just—"

"Okay, tough guy, relax," Kurt shoved Blaine's hand back up to his face.

"What happened?" Finn demanded again. He followed them into the kitchen to fetch the requested ice pack.

"Azimio and those guys slushied me and put me in the dumpster when I was waiting for Blaine to pick me up," Kurt shrugged before hitching a thumb in Blaine's direction, "When this guy over here showed up, though, he suddenly decided he was strong enough to take on two football players and a hockey player."

"Dude, you're, like,  _tiny;_  what were you thinking?" Finn handed off the ice to Kurt and took the chair beside Blaine.

"I am  _not_  that small," Blaine scowled, "and they can't just push people around with no repercussions. It's not fair. And I don't need ice."

"Somehow I don't think you yelling at them and shoving them did much to teach them a lesson," Kurt pressed the icepack to his own heel, "And the ice if for me, not you."

Blaine dropped the Kleenex again to stare down at Kurt's foot in alarm, "You said they didn't hurt you, did they—"

"Oh my God, calm down and keep that thing on your nose, you're going to drip blood all over my pants," Kurt swatted Blaine away from him, "I'm fine, I hurt my ankle getting out of the dumpster."

"So what exactly did they do?" Finn pressed, looking between the two.

"So Blaine got out of his car and started throwing insults around like confetti and tried to shove them around a bit," Kurt threw Blaine a withering look.

"They looked a little shaken," Blaine insisted.

"That's because they have the vocabulary of seven year-olds and didn't understand half of what you were saying, honey," Kurt patted Blaine affectionately on the knee, "if they were properly shaken, I don't think they would have just kept walking."

Finn got up to fetch a clean paper towel for Blaine, "If they just walked away, how'd you get the bloody nose?"

Blaine took the offered paper towel, but looked sheepishly toward Kurt to explain.

"How do you think?" Kurt rolled his eyes, "He  _kept_ berating them, so finally Azimio turned around and punched him in the face."

Blaine grumbled something incoherent and folded his free arm across his chest.

Finn looked Blaine over. He really was a tiny guy; like not just short either, he was just…  _little._  Any one of the football players easily had at least four or five inches on him in height, not to mention thirty pounds on him in weight; it would take nothing to beat the living daylights out of a kid that size, "Don't get into anymore fights, Blaine."

Blaine looked to Finn in surprise.

"I mean it, if one of those guys decided they wanted to hurt you, they could really do a number on you… next time, tell me or Puck what happened. We'll take care of it."

"I don't need someone to fight for me," Blaine said through gritted teeth, "I won't let people just get away with hurting me. Or hurting Kurt. I won't just run away from that."

"I get it, man, you're pissed, and you have every right to be—"

"I am not running away," Blaine cut him off, "I won't go out of my way to provoke people anymore, but I will take a bloody nose or a black eye over tucking my tail any day. I'm done with that."

Kurt smiled and reached over to squeeze Blaine's hand in his. The two exchanged a look that would normally have made Finn uncomfortable, but he was too busy thinking.

He was a little nervous—the idea of Blaine really pissing the wrong person off made him apprehensive—but more than that he was… impressed. Dapper, chattery Blaine was a lot scrappier than he had given him credit for. But that didn't change the fact that Finn still felt obligated to watch out for him. He  _was_ his brother's boyfriend after all.

"Just know I've got your back, okay, man?"

Blaine's defiance had melted a little, his normal cheery grin blossomed on his face, "Sure thing."

 

* * *

Blaine hadn't listened to Finn's advice to avoid further conflict, a trait that resulted in Finn peeling Blaine off of more than one McKinley jock at sporting events and in the parking lot on the days he came to pick Kurt up from school, but Finn hadn't minded all that much, He didn't even care when he ended up with a black eye after a crew from the basketball team slushied both Blaine and Kurt. In truth, Finn liked Blaine's willingness to be aggressive; to fight for what he wanted. He looked up from his knees to where Kurt was sitting on the couch with his face in his hands, "He'll be fine."

 

Kurt looked over to him in surprise.

Finn nodded his head slowly, "Blaine fights hard when he wants something. He'll get through this."

Kurt looked a little calmer, maybe even a little reassured. Finn got up and moved closer to the couch. He reached out and squeezed Kurt's knee, "I've still got your back through all of this stuff. And his."

"Thank you, Finn," Kurt sniffled, "I just… this waiting part. I hate it. I hate not being able to do anything."

Finn glanced toward Rachel before looking back at Kurt, "We'll wait with you."

"It's not just an hour or two, Finn, it could be days." Kurt wiped a thumb through the condensation forming on his water glass.

"So that's how long we'll wait," Finn asserted, "We'll keep your head busy."

Rachel squeezed his hand, "We'll call Mercedes and Puck and the Warblers; we'll all wait together."

Kurt smiled despite himself; he scrubbed at his eyes again, "Thank you for the concern… I…"

Finn was not as stupid as people thought. Slow on the uptake, yeah, okay, true enough, but Finn  _noticed_  things. Remembered them. Like the fact that Kurt hated being lonely but he liked to be alone. There were rainy Saturdays Finn would find him in his room with a candle lit and music playing while he paged through a magazine, perfectly content to be left to his own devices. But, no, now was not one of those times when Kurt should be left alone; Blaine had warned him about that once—to keep an eye on Kurt when he got too sad. So at least a few people around him… yeah, that would be good, "Maybe for now just me and Rachel; if you want some more people to come over we could call them up."

Kurt looked to Finn gratefully; relieved, "I'd like that."

"I'll give Blaine's parents a call and see if there's anything we can do for them," Burt said gently, "I have to get back to work for a couple hours, I only came back to the house to see if you'd made it home yet. Will you be okay?"

"Finn and Rachel are here," Kurt sank back into the couch, "I'll be fine. Thanks dad."

"Finn?" Burt turned his attention toward his stepson, "could I talk to you for a minute?"

"Uh, yeah, sure," Finn followed Burt into the kitchen, glancing over his shoulder unsurely toward Rachel and Kurt.

"What you did in there for him," Burt pursed his lips for a moment, looked down at the ground, "Thank you. For acting like his brother."

"I am his brother," Finn responded almost automatically.

"Just… keep an eye on him, would ya?" Burt glanced out the doorway toward the family room, "and if one of the Andersons call and say he can come in, would you mind taking him? He shouldn't be driving like this."

"Yeah, sure," Finn nodded quickly, "No problem."

Burt nodded his head slowly; he looked tired. He squeezed Finn's arm briefly as he left the kitchen, "You're a good kid, Finn."

Finn watched Burt walk back toward the family room and couldn't help but wonder if Kurt was the only person they should be worried about.

"Hey, listen, bud," Burt put on a smile for Kurt as he approached the couch, "I'm gonna take off, but I'll be back in a couple hours. Do you need anything?"

Kurt shook his head. His tears had finally stopped, but his pale cheeks and distant eyes were of little comfort to his father and brother.

"Hang in there, kid," Burt leaned over the back of the couch to touch a kiss to the top of his son's head before making his way to the front door.

The hours passed slowly—the sun sank lower, bathing the rooms in pink light, but Kurt didn't move. He remained seated on the couch, his eyes glued to the screen of his phone. Rachel coaxed him into finishing the glass of water, but when Carol got home, arms laden with bags of Chinese food—already alerted by her husband to everything that had happened—and tried to get Kurt to eat, he adamantly refused.

"He needs to eat something," Carol sighed, watching Finn and Rachel fill plates with food.

"He'll have to eventually," Finn shrugged, "Blaine can't stay in the—Rachel, where do they have Blaine?"

"The ICU," Rachel provided.

"Yeah, they can't keep him in the ICU forever," despite his nearly overflowing plate, Finn stuck his fork into a box of rice and stuffed the bite into his mouth.

Carol threw him a disapproving frown but then sighed, "I guess you're right."

"I'm gonna go sit out there with him," Finn balanced a fortune cookie precariously on top of his plate and made for the door.

Kurt had a pillow hugged across his lap, his eyes still glued to his phone, but when Finn plopped down beside him, he wrinkled his nose, "You really need to sit right next to me with that?"

"I said I was gonna wait with you," Finn said around a mouthful of orange chicken, "so here I am."

Kurt looked like he was contemplating bitching Finn out, but in the end he just went back to staring down at his lap.

Finn shoveled in a few more mouthfuls of food and listened to the quiet chatter of Rachel and his mother coming from the kitchen, "Will you at least eat the fortune cookie?"

Kurt shot Finn a contemptuous look.

"Come on," Finn tossed the cellophane wrapped cookie onto the pillow on Kurt's lap, "Maybe it has a good fortune for you in there."

"Those pieces of paper are manufactured by the thousands in a factory somewhere in Pennsylvania. They don't mean anything," Kurt hugged the pillow in closer to his chest; sat up a little straighter.

Finn gave up trying to get Kurt to eat, but he remained seated where he was while he busied himself clearing his plate. When he'd scraped the last few stray grains of rice off his plate (he left some brocolli, because, seriously, who wants to eat the vegetables if there was nothing to go with them?) and waved the fortune cookie in front of Kurt's face, it's plastic wrapper crinkled noisily, "You sure you don't want it?"

"Positive," Kurt responded, his eyes glued to the black screen of his phone yet again.

Finn peeled open the wrapper and set to work trying to pull the little strip of paper out but with little success. He bit down on his tongue as he tried to concentrate on plucking the paper out without shattering the cookie, but it was no use; the more he tried to coax it out, the further it disappeared into the little crease line.

Kurt glanced over at him and sighed, "Why don't you just break it?"

"Because then the fortune can't come true," Finn grumbled, still trying to work the nail of his pinkie finger in.

"You cannot be serious."

"'Course I am," Finn let out a frustrated huff of breath.

"Give it to me," Kurt snatched the thing from Finn's hand and, with nimble fingers, pried the paper loose and handed both over.

Finn took the cookie and stuffed the whole thing in his mouth, talking around it, "Nuh uh, you pulled it out, it's yours now."

"Finn, I told you, I don't—" Kurt let out an exasperated sigh, "Fine, whatever."

Finn watched Kurt as he read the little message. He swallowed down the cookie before speaking, "Well, what's it say?"

"It says 'a good way to stay healthy is to eat more Chinese food from Yu Fong Express'."

Finn traced a finger through the orange sauce still on his plate and sucked it off his finger, "Maybe Blaine should eat more Chinese food."

Kurt's head snapped up to glower at him, "Blaine's in the ICU with a tube stuck in his head so his brain doesn't swell and kill him and you're choosing to  _joke_  about it?"

"Dude, I wasn't trying to be—"

"You weren't trying to be what?" Kurt was suddenly on his feet, "Intentionally stupid? This isn't funny, Finn, this isn't us waiting to drive Carol home after a root canal; what part of brain surgery are you having a hard time comprehending?"

Finn stood too, his plate clattering to the floor; staining the carpet, "Dude, chill out! All I've been trying to do is help you!"

"Well you're not doing a very good job of it!" Kurt turned on his heel and stormed up the stairs.

"What's going on in here?" Carol came into the room, a plate in one hand and a sponge in the other.

"I don't know, he freaked out on me!" Finn threw his hands into the air in frustration.

"Maybe I should go talk to him," Carol looked toward the stairwell with a concerned frown.

"No, let me," Rachel moved past Carol in the doorway.

Finn closed his eyes and tried to get a hold on his anger. When he opened them again, he let out a long sigh, "I'll come, too, I sort of… said something I shouldn't have."

"What'd you say?" Rachel looked at him warily.

"I sort of made a joke about the hospital thing and—"

"Finn!" Carol looked at her son reproachfully.

"I wasn't trying to be mean, okay?" Finn raised his hands again, this time in defense, "I'm gonna apologize though, so please don't flip out on me."

His mother threw him another look as he and Rachel jogged up the stairs.

They paused outside the door; Rachel knocked quietly, "Kurt?"

When she received no answer, she opened the door slowly; cautiously. Kurt was sitting on his bed, his back against the headboard and his phone folded between his hands.

"Hey, mind if we come in?" Rachel asked from the doorway.

He looked over to her, his jaw set defiantly, but then the expression faded from his face until he just looked tired, "Sure."

Finn followed her through and tried to close the door as quietly as he could. A slammed door could piss Kurt off even on his most cheerful days. He came to stand beside Rachel, a hand reaching up to rub at the back of his neck, "Hey, listen, man, I'm sorry, okay? I wasn't trying to be mean; I just… you know I say things sometimes without really thinking about it…and…and I shouldn't have."

Kurt stared at him in silence for a long minute before letting out a slow breath through his nose, "I know you didn't. I shouldn't have attacked you like that, I just… I needed somewhere to put my frustration and you were the closest thing… I'm sorry, too."

Finn felt a tension leave his shoulders, "We're cool then?"

"Yes, Finn, we're fine." Kurt spoke quietly.

An awkward pause followed while they all stared at one another.

Rachel suddenly moved toward the bed, "Scoot over."

"Why?" Kurt raised an eyebrow at her but did as instructed.

She curled herself in beside him, wrapped an arm around his middle, and rested her head on his shoulder, "Because all you ever want when you're stressed out is Blaine to cuddle with you and since he can't do it right now, I will."

He sat rigid beside her for a moment, but then, slowly, relaxed. He tipped his head down to rest on hers, "Thank you, Rachel."

Finn stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, torn as to whether he should leave or remain standing there.

"Finn, I promise I won't claw you to death if you sit down," Kurt seemed to read his mind. Or maybe he just noticed the way Finn was shifting his weight from foot to foot and looking awkwardly between the bed and the doorway.

Finn sat down sideways at the end of the bed and leaned back against the wall. He glanced up toward Rachel and Kurt who were both sitting quietly, their eyes distant and their bodies still. The air was filled with a silence that whispered in Finn's ear that something wasn't being said. It made him feel nervous; on edge. He realized he was sitting up perfectly straight, his back only brushing the wall, but too tense to relax into any sort of normal slumped pose. He was reminded of Kurt in his pre-Dalton days; the tense shoulders, the constant look like he was ready to either stand up and run or stand up and scream. He wondered if this had been how he felt at that time—so tense he couldn't ever bring himself to relax for even a moment. Finn shook the thought and tried to send the feeling living between his shoulder blades with it. He needed to fill that God awful void of soundlessness.

He got up off the bed and went to Kurt's Ipod dock, "Mind if I pick something?"

Kurt shook his head but didn't look up.

Finn shuffled through Kurt's playlists until he settled on one that felt right. He hit play and crawled back to his spot on the bed, earning an irritated look from Rachel when he jostled her and Kurt. He glanced up at Kurt to see if he approved of the music selection, but Kurt didn't seem to hear it at all. The look on his brother's face disturbed him even more than his own relentless nerves. He hadn't seen Kurt look this down since… since when? He couldn't remember anymore. He could remember a time though, when that expression had been Kurt's norm— the guarded exhaustion; the fragile hurt. He'd never realized how broken Kurt was until he wasn't anymore, but to see it there again… Finn squeezed a hand over Kurt's foot and settled in to wait.

_Be my friend_

_Hold me_

_Wrap me up_

_Unfold me_

_I am small and needy_

_Warm me up and breathe me_


	11. Chapter 10

Kurt twisted the strap of Blaine's duffle bag between his hands, wrapping it so tightly around his fingers they turned a sickly jaundiced shade of white and yellow. He'd been waiting in the Anderson driveway for what felt like hours. He glanced at the clock on his dash. 9:47. He'd only been sitting there for fourteen minutes. He closed his eyes and tried to take in a deep breath. He exhaled it slowly, paid attention the muscles in his chest relaxing, pressing out the air in his lungs through his mouth; his nose. His head kept buzzing all the same.

"Fuck it," Kurt muttered and resumed his normal breathing pattern. He glanced for the thousandth time in his rearview mirror at the empty street.

The promised twenty-four hours of isolation had stretched to three days for complications that no one could explain to Kurt. The three days had turned into another two in which it was strictly family only. The two days had suddenly backtracked to another twenty-four hours of ICU time, and then the family only time had once again commenced. Tides that ebbed and flowed around Kurt's feet, pulling Blaine in closer to him, only to pull him back out of reach again. And now finally, nine days later, Blaine was coming home.

"You'll have to be gentle with him," Elizabeth had murmured the day prior, her voice so tired, Kurt could practically see her stooped shoulders and smudged make up through the phone, "He's… fragile right now."

Despite his father's repeated commands to rest, Kurt hadn't slept that night; he'd tossed and turned and finally thrown the covers off at four to moisturize, shower, and select the perfect outfit for being reunited with Blaine. The only thing that had shackled him to the house until past seven had been his father insisting he eat breakfast and Carol shoving something wrapped in tinfoil into his arms to give to the Andersons. When he'd finally been given the okay to leave the house, he scrapped his dignity and literally ran for the door, tossed Carol's food offering into the passenger seat atop Blaine's forgotten duffle bag, and jammed the key in the ignition. The devastating scraping sound of his car bottoming out at the end of the driveway that would have normally made him groan aloud with displeasure barely registered in his ears as he peeled out of the neighborhood. He was jittery off of too many cups of coffee and the notion of seeing Blaine. He drummed his fingers impatiently on the wheel when he had to slow behind other vehicles and he cursed the nearly two-hour distance between his and Blaine's homes. Lights passed in blurs, and he moved automatically between lanes; it wasn't until he was passing the exit that would have normally lead him to Westerville and Dalton that his mind finally reengaged, but all his awareness did was heighten his nerves. When he pulled into the driveway and dialed Blaine's number, he had been disappointed to hear Elizabeth answer the call and inform him they'd be another ten minutes or so. The wait combined with the smell of banana wafting out from the confines of tinfoil beside him made him feel nauseous.

He resumed toying with Blaine's duffle bag; he zipped and unzipped the top; traced his fingers around the little embroidered warbler on the front; the thick red ribbons of thread that spelt out Blaine's last name on the back pocket. When he saw the sleek, black shape of a BMW pulling into the drive beside him, he let out a little yip of excitement and threw open the door of his Navigator. He floundered for a moment of confusion when he couldn't move from his seat before realizing he hadn't undone his seatbelt. He paused in his flurry of movement to take another breath; center himself. If what Elizabeth said was true, Blaine didn't need Kurt jumping at his heels like someone's attention-starved Jack Russell Terrier. He calmly unbuckled himself, hitched the strap of Blaine's bag over his shoulder, and cradled the silver wrapped loaf against his chest. He smiled brightly at Elizabeth as she stepped out of the car.

"Kurt, it's nice to see you," Elizabeth offered him a strained smile.

"It's nice to see you, too, Mrs. Anderson; Carol sent this over for you," Kurt motioned to the silver-wrapped loaf.

"Oh, how thoughtful," Elizabeth looked surprised but then pleased, "Really, very sweet of her to go through the trouble."

"She loves to bake and she loves Blaine, so I'm sure she was more than happy to do it," Kurt replied as pleasantly as he could, but his eyes were glued on John pulling open the backdoor, leaning into the seat to murmur something to the other passenger.

John straightened and waited patiently, one hand extended out as Blaine pushed himself unsteadily out of the backseat.

Kurt bit down on his lip. Blaine's face was nearly as pale as the gauzy bandages wrapping his head; his eyes hollow and rimmed in angry purple circles. He stumbled a little, but was quickly caught by his father.

"Easy," John murmured, "Remember what Dr. Johnson said, don't push it."

"I'm fine," Blaine murmured, his eyes focused on his feet as he shuffled a few more paces forward.

 _Don't you dare start to cry,_ Kurt screamed at himself; he clenched and unclenched his hands, willed his voice to remain steady. He wanted to say something sarcastic; something silly and witty, but he couldn't come up with anything, "Hi, Blaine."

Blaine's head shot up so fast, he stumbled a little; his arms jerked out a few inches to maintain his balance. After the momentary look of surprise while he regained his balance, a smile broke out across his face, "Kurt! I've missed you."

That smile changed everything. The same Blaine; the same bright eyes and charming grin. Kurt tucked the bread under his arm and crossed the space between them. He ignored the uncomfortable look that crossed John's face and put a gentle hand on Blaine's elbow to lead him forward toward the door, "I've missed you, too. Let's get you inside before they decide to try and take you back again or something."

Blaine complied, but it was a frighteningly slow process—he watched his feet every step of the way as though unsure of whether or not they would follow the path he set for them and paused occasionally paused as though afraid they wouldn't work at all.

Kurt offered no comment on the matter, nor did he say a word about the fact that Blaine's hand was still twitching just as it had before the surgery. When they finally got him inside, all four paused to look at the stairs leading up.

"I could make up a spot for you on the couch down here," Elizabeth brushed a hand across Blaine's back.

Blaine chewed at the inside of his cheek and contemplated the steps for another minute, "I can make it up."

"Honey, are you sure?"

"Positive," Blaine bobbed his head up and down quickly.

She nodded complacently, "I'll come make up your bed; John, dear, could you show Kurt where to put the bread?"

John glanced at Kurt almost uncomfortably, "Why don't I bring Blaine up? If he falls…"

"I won't fall," Blaine's cheeks turned pink as he glanced toward Kurt.

"You didn't think you'd fall that day at the hospital either—"

"I said I won't fucking fall!" Blaine shouted.

"Blaine," Kurt breathed out his name in shock. He looked unsurely between Blaine's suddenly stormy expression and Elizabeth's tired one.

Elizabeth looked unfettered by the sudden outburst, "Your father will go up with you. Kurt, why don't we put that bread in the kitchen?"

Blaine gave her a tired look before letting out a world-weary sigh, all signs of his previous fury gone, "Fine."

"I'll be up in a few minutes," Kurt squeezed Blaine's arm as gently as he could before following Elizabeth to the kitchen.

Elizabeth took the aluminum wrapped loaf from Kurt and set it down on the counter, "Tell your stepmother thank you for us, won't you?"

"Oh, yes, of course I'll tell her…. " Kurt's thoughts had been on Blaine's sudden outburst; he tried to shake the shuttery feeling from his limbs, "Mrs. Anderson, if I might ask, what… what just happened back there?"

Elizabeth turned to face him and Kurt could see the weariness he had heard in the previous night's phone call etched into her features, "The doctors say it should be temporary, but it's a side effect of the surgery."

"I thought the surgery was supposed to get rid of those things, isn't that the point?" Kurt felt a jolt of panic in the pit of his stomach; what if the surgery hadn't worked at all?

"It will eventually, but right now his brain is still recovering, and it's possible there will be some…" Elizabeth glanced toward the window overlooking the front lawn and then back at Kurt, "some more long lasting side effects."

"Like what?" Kurt asked guardedly.

"He has trouble talking sometimes—he can't get the words out right," Elizabeth smoothed at wrinkles in her dress that weren't there, "And his hand."

Kurt adjusted the duffle bag still hanging from his shoulder just for the sake of having an excuse to move; a place to put even a fraction of a percent of the sudden adrenaline spike he felt, "How long lasting are we talking?"

Elizabeth's eyes left his, "He has a speech pathologist and he did a little work with a physical therapist this week. We're moving him to a closer treatment center for chemotherapy and radiation; they'll get him back on a more regular schedule for those things as soon as they can. It's supposed to help."

Kurt regarded her for another long pause, contemplating whether or not he wanted to point out that she hadn't answered his question.

"He got sick from the medications they were giving him," she said abruptly, turning to look at him again, "That's why they kept him for so long. I'm sorry I didn't explain it better over the phone, I guess I was just… distracted."

Kurt wasn't sure what to make of the newly offered information. He smiled awkwardly, "It's understandable, Mrs. Anderson."

"You can go up to see him if you'd like," She turned away again; picked up Carol's banana bread; put it back down in the same place.

Kurt hesitated, considered saying something, but then settled for just exiting the kitchen quietly and jogging up the stairs to Blaine's room.

Blaine was settled in his bed, his father standing awkwardly beside him. He grinned when he saw Kurt, "I was worried you would spend your entire visit chatting with my mother."

"Not a chance," Kurt dropped the duffle bag down on the floor, and pulled Blaine's desk chair over to the side of the bed.

John cleared his throat and backed toward the door, "You're all right, then?"

"I'm fine, Dad," Blaine glanced his direction, "I'll yell if I need anything."

"You're not supposed to shout, remember—"

"I know, I know," Blaine rolled his eyes, "Kurt will yell. I'll sit quietly."

John nodded, sent a quick glance Kurt's direction, and disappeared out of the room, pulling the door shut with a definitive click.

"Wow, closed door and everything," Kurt looked toward the door, an eyebrow raised.

Blaine snorted, "It's not like I'm capable of doing anything scandalous right now."

"How are you feeling?" Kurt reached out to squeeze Blaine's hand.

"I'd be doing a whole lot better if you'd get up here and cuddle with me instead of sitting in that chair," Blaine slid sideways in the bed and patted the vacated space beside him.

Kurt complied more than willingly, sliding into the space that was still warm from Blaine's body, "How about now?"

"Much better," Blaine smiled at him blissfully.

Kurt wanted to grab him by the back of the neck and kiss him as hard as he could. He restrained himself and settled for squeezing his hand around Blaine's a little tighter. His eyes drifted up to the bandages, "…does it hurt?"

"My head?" Blaine reached up a hand and rubbed absently at the white gauze; his fingers trembled, "Not really; it feels like a bad headache sometimes but that's all."

Kurt nodded as though he understood. They lapsed into silence.

"I'm sorry I'm not very entertaining company right now," Blaine blinked sleepily.

"Lucky for you, I brought some entertainment," Kurt clambered back out of the bed, suddenly remembering what he had tucked into the top of Blaine's bag almost as an afterthought. He hid his find behind his back until he was settled back on the bed, "Guess what I got."

Blaine tilted his head, "Umm… gimme a clue."

"It is your very favorite guilty pleasure."

Blaine's face lit up, "It's—"

Kurt felt a sinking in his chest as Blaine's smile fell.

"Um, it's…" Blaine looked down to the comforter, a frown line formed between his eyebrows as he thought.

"It's what, Blaine?" Kurt spoke quietly.

Blaine was silent; he closed his eyes tightly as he thought.

"Like a book…" Kurt offered.

Blaine squeezed down on his hand tighter and looked up at him; his eyes intense, "I swear I know it."

Kurt nodded; tried to ignore the sound of his heart hammering against his ribs. Elizabeth had told him it would happen. It was natural; it wasn't anything to be frightened by, "I know you do."

"It's… it's…" Blaine clenched his free hand around the blanket, tipped his head back and closed his eyes again.

"Do you want me to tell—"

"No!" Blaine pulled his hand out of Kurt's; pinched the bridge of his nose, "I can get it, I just need…"

"Hey," Kurt pulled his hand out from behind his back and tucked the magazine between Blaine's hands, "Look at it; see if that helps."

Blaine opened his eyes and looked down at the glossy cover. He turned it over between his hands.

Kurt watched him silently and tried not to hold his breath.

Blaine's face suddenly lit up, "Magazine."

"That's right," Kurt let out a relieved sigh, "A magazine."

Blaine glowered at him, "Don't."

"Don't what?" Kurt looked at him in alarm.

"Pity me," Blaine was still scowling at him, "Don't you fucking dare. I get enough of it from my parents."

"I wasn't trying to," Kurt covered Blaine's hand with his, but Blaine retracted his fingers quickly.

"I get it, okay?" Blaine looked down at his hand, "I'm a fucking mess, but I don't want you to look at me like somebody's neglected puppy. I can barely deal with my mom and dad doing it; but if you keeping looking at me like that too… I can't handle that."

Kurt bit back his protest. It was true, he couldn't help but feel a hurt in his chest for his boyfriend's plight, "I don't mean to—I just… this has all happened so fast, Blaine, seeing you like this is… I can't help but hurt for you when you seem like you're suffering."

Blaine studied him in silence, until he let out a sigh, "Can you promise me something?"

Kurt nodded quickly, "Of course."

"Promise me you won't do it anymore—pity me, I mean. I need you to… I don't know really, but please, I can't do this knowing you're constantly feeling sorry for me."

Would it be worse to lie and make the promise or to tell him he couldn't help but feel an ache in his chest every time he looked at Blaine's trembling hand? ...He could do his best though to fight the feeling, couldn't he? He stuck out a pinkie to Blaine with a smile, "I promise to work my absolute hardest to not feel sorry for you."

Blaine smiled; relieved. He linked the pinkie of his more stable hand with Kurt's, "Thank you."

"Can we please look at this now? I have been fighting every natural impulse I have to not look at the pictures from the newest Kardashian wedding just so we could tear them apart together."

They settled in together, Blaine's head on Kurt's shoulder and the magazine propped on his knees for them to see. Kurt chattered away and things almost felt normal again as they giggled and flipped through the pages—gushing over the better looking actors and rolling their eyes over sleazy pop stars. Slowly though, Blaine quieted, his thoughts clearly drifting.

Kurt kept talking all the same, but when he followed Blaine's gaze downward, it was not focused on the magazine. His eyes were trained on his hand. He flexed it open and closed; open and closed. It trembled the entire time.

Kurt's voice trailed off. He brushed a hand over Blaine's forearm, "Everything okay?"

Blaine held up his hand, spread his fingers open wide; tried to hold it steady. When it proved useless, he dropped it back down to his lap.

"Blaine?" Kurt squeezed his arm a little tighter.

Blaine suddenly swung his legs over the side of the bed and shoved himself upright.

Kurt scrambled after him, the magazine crushed beneath his knees as he pushed himself off the bed, "Where are you going?"

"Downstairs," Blaine replied; distracted. He bumped his shoulder on the doorframe as he made his way out, but didn't acknowledge the misstep.

"Hey, wait up, I'll come with you," Kurt caught a hold of Blaine's arm and tried not to let on that he was terrified Blaine would slip and fall down the stairs.

Blaine didn't object to Kurt's hand at his elbow. He slowed his pace a little as they made their way down the stairs, mindful of every step. As soon as they were back on level ground, he quickened his pace again.

"Blaine, honey, what are you doing?" Elizabeth looked up from the couch, a laptop perched on her knees.

Blaine didn't answer. He breezed past the couch and sat down on the bench in front of the piano, his fingers grazing over the tops of the keys.

Kurt met Elizabeth's confused gaze and shrugged. He sat down on the bench beside Blaine. He watched Blaine bite his lip as he pressed down gently on a black key, then a white.

Blaine's hand paused. He lifted the other one to the keys. He pressed down one chord; another… he played a melody Kurt didn't recognize, but he could see Blaine's shoulders relaxing, his eyes were half-closed. When he finished he looked… relieved.

"That was lovely, Blaine." His mother said softly. She hadn't moved from her place on the couch, but she watched the boys on the bench intently.

Blaine nodded his thanks but said nothing, he walked his fingers up a scale of notes and then another; his thumb occasionally bumping an odd note. He let out a frustrated grunt in the back of his throat.

"It'll steady out," Kurt offered quietly.

Blaine didn't respond; his hand dropped from the keys to his lap.

Kurt sat silently beside him, and then slowly lifted his own hand to the keys. He tapped out the beginning of Heart and Soul .

Blaine watched him mutely.

"Well, are you going to do the other part or not?" Kurt nudged Blaine's shoulder with his.

A shadow of a smile traced Blaine's mouth. He tapped out the accompaniment slowly at first, and then a little faster.

John emerged from his office, cell phone in hand, looking disgruntled. He sat down beside his wife and murmured something in her ear.

Kurt watched them surreptitiously out of the corner of his eye. He switched songs abruptly and winked at Blaine.

Blaine grinned back, clearly more at ease, as he tapped out the other half of the song.

Kurt kept him busy while he watched Liz and John murmur back and forth, both frowning. He missed a note, but when he tried to get back into it, he couldn't find the melody.

Blaine stopped playing, still looking mellow, "Thanks for indulging me."

"Anytime," Kurt resisted the urge to kiss Blaine with his parents sitting so close.

"Very nice, boys, very nice," John clapped lamely.

"I didn't even hear you come in, Dad," Blaine looked over his shoulder in surprise at both his parents sitting on the couch.

"I was in my office earlier. I was on the phone with your Uncle Harry," John motioned his phone toward Blaine, "He called to ask if we were coming out for the family week at the cottage… I had to give him the news about everything that's been going on."

Kurt knew about the Anderson Family summer gathering; he'd endured the loss of his boyfriend the previous summer to the same trip. A week at some distant relative's house in the Hamptons that Blaine had been more than a little sullen about partaking in after, despite ceaseless begging, he was not allowed to bring Kurt along.

Blaine nodded, "No week on the coast for us then, I take it?"

"No, I'm afraid not," John shifted on the couch uncomfortably, "For any of the family, actually."

Blaine frowned, "What do you mean?"

John looked tired, "It's your uncle's thought that if you're here and sick, they should all come to Ohio for a visit."

Kurt couldn't help but note the almost uncanny way Blaine looked identical to his parents when his face, too, took on an exhausted quality—his father's same amber colored eyes with his mother's look of weariness, "Please tell me you told them no."

"I tried to; I told him you'll have just started treatment and you'll be sick and tired," John sighed, "But he just saw that as all the more reason to come see us."

There was a brief silence that blanketed the room as Blaine mulled over the news.

"…Okay," Blaine tried for a smile, "I guess they're well-intentioned at least… and I like the kids."

His mother and father exchanged a weary look.

Blaine frowned, "What?"

John sat up a little straighter. Kurt knew what that meant, he'd seen Blaine imitate it on multiple occasions—that quick stiffening of his shoulders; the little clearing of his throat—it meant John was going to say something Blaine didn't want to hear, "It's not just them coming, Blaine. Your Grandma Helen is coming, too."

Blaine let out an immediate groan, "Dad."

"Blaine, be reasonable, she's your family." John spoke sternly, but his face held little conviction.

"She hates me," Blaine gave his father a pleading look, "Can't you convince her to stay home?"

"Her mind is made up, Blaine," his father frowned, "And she doesn't hate you."

Blaine's frown turned into a deeper scowl, "Right, she just hates ' _my choices_ '."

John let out a sigh; pinched the bridge of his nose, "Blaine, we can't keep having this conversation."

"I wasn't aware there was even a conversation to be had," Blaine snapped, "She's the one who acts like there's an argument to be made."

"She's old-fashioned, Blaine, she just doesn't understand," John rested his elbows on his knees as though sitting upright was too much of an effort.

"I'm happy and I try to be a good person. What's there to misunderstand?" Blaine leaned his back against the keyboard, his face set in a scowl.

John glanced between him and Kurt, "Blaine, please, you know we're not anymore plussed than you are about how conservative she is—"

Blaine snorted, "Right. That's why you won't let me bring Kurt with to church, because you're so open-minded, Dad."

"Can we please not argue right now?" Elizabeth touched a hand to her husband's back, "It can't be good for Blaine's health, and this conversation never leads anywhere."

John and Blaine stared at one another in silence. Kurt shifted uncomfortably at Blaine's side but said nothing.

John studied his son; his tired, angry eyes; the bandages wrapped around his head. His expression softened, "You know I love you, Blaine."

Blaine scowled back at him for a long minute, but then he just looked tired. He looked down at his lap, "I know."

"I'll call your grandmother and see if I can get her to change her mind," John added, trying to meet Blaine's eyes again.

"Thanks," Blaine said lamely.

Another lull of quiet filled the room.

"Blaine, are you hungry?" Kurt was surprised by the sound of his own voice filling the space, "Carol sent over banana bread."

Blaine's expression relaxed; he smiled, "I'm not hungry, but I'll never say no to Carol's baking."

Kurt pulled Blaine to his feet, he glanced toward the Andersons still sitting on the couch, "Do you mind if we go to the kitchen?"

"Not at all," Elizabeth's tone was artificially cheery, "Go right ahead."

Kurt settled Blaine in a kitchen chair before filling a glass with milk and dropping the loaf unceremoniously on the table in front of his boyfriend along with two plates and a knife, "Bon appétit."

Blaine snorted out a short laugh and worked at untangling the tin foil from around the bread. Kurt took the seat beside him and watched. He filled the space with mindless talk, "We should get sheet music for more duets. It'll be good for both of us—you can work on your hand, and I can add more music to my repertoire."

Blaine looked up at him; studied his face, "We're just going to pretend that conversation in the family room didn't happen then, I take it?"

Kurt hesitated. He wanted to ask a million questions; about the hated grandmother, the uncle who Blaine affectionately chuckled over from time to time; the awkward fight about church that Kurt had heard alluded to twice now. He eyed Blaine's head, "For now, yeah we are. Today has been too intense for more talk like that. Lets just chat about stupid gossip and stuff ourselves silly with trans fats and sugar."

Blaine laughed softly, he resumed unwrapping the bread, "I like that idea."

As Blaine started chattering about summer and missing Rachel and the Warblers already, Kurt tried his best to look cheerful; well-engaged. He tried not to draw attention to himself when he pulled the bread and knife away from Blaine, afraid he'd chop off a finger with his shaky hand. He tried to hide all traces of concern from his face when Blaine floundered for a word. He smiled pleasantly and talked about mindless nothings and tried to get his mind to feel as light as his voice sounded. He focused on Blaine's eyes—bright, cheery; unchanged—he was regaling Kurt with a story about the dorm bathrooms flooding as the result of a senior prank gone awry at Dalton. His hands flew through the air excitedly as he talked, just like they always did; his voice, even when a word escaped him, was filled with laughter. The normalcy of it all trumped the bad and Kurt felt himself relaxing. He was still Blaine.

Kurt leaned across the small space between them and touched a quick kiss to his cheek.

Blaine paused in his story, but he didn't question the sudden affection. Instead, he grinned, leaned his hands on Kurt's knees, and kissed him fully on the mouth.

He would always be Blaine.


	12. Chapter 11

Kurt wondered absently if Blaine was strong enough to actually break his hand. He tried to shift his fingers in Blaine's just a little, but his grip was iron tight. He nudged his shoulder, "You doing okay?"

"Of course I am, why?" Blaine didn't look at him; his eyes were locked on the closed door of the clinic office they were residing in.

"You kind of seem like you're freaking out," Kurt tried again to move his hand.

"Who's freaking out? I'm not freaking out." He spoke so quickly his syllables blended together into one big word.

"So you're just crushing my hand for the fun of it?" Kurt raised an eyebrow.

Blaine looked down at their hands and quickly loosened his grip, "Sorry."

"Don't be," Kurt flexed his fingers a few times to get the blood flowing back through them properly, "Just try and relax."

"Right. Relax." Blaine nodded his head quickly, but he showed no sign of following the instructions. He sat perfectly upright, his back barely touching the back of his chair; his eyes forever watching the closed door.

"You've made it through three sessions already," Kurt tried to sound upbeat, "Now it's just two needles and then no more."

"And a cord winding from my arm up into my chest," Blaine muttered, his eyes finally moving from the door to cast Kurt a quick glance.

"You won't even be able to feel it," Despite his fingers still tingling from lack of blood, Kurt squeezed Blaine's hand, "And it'll make you get better faster."

"Right; yeah," Blaine swallowed hard.

John sighed and turned around to face the boys, "It's just shots, Blaine, you've been getting them since the day you were born and they have yet to kill you. Try and think practically about it."

"Sorry I'm not feeling particularly practical today," Blaine snapped. He folded his arms tightly across his chest and went back to watching the door.

John sighed and turned back to the shelf.

Kurt couldn't scoot his chair any closer to Blaine's, so he tipped his head in so close, his mouth was almost touching Blaine's ear to whisper, "He means well."

Blaine shot Kurt a near-death stare. He opened his mouth to speak, but then quickly clamped it shut again when the door opened.

"Good morning!" A nurse walked in pushing a medical tray. Kurt recognized her from Blaine's past chemo sessions. Her name was Mitzi and she loved Blaine almost as much as he claimed to despise her.

John turned his attention away from the shelf to nod a quick hello.

Blaine eyed the tray warily.

"So who's the lucky guy today?" The nurse beamed around at all of them.

"That's not funny," Blaine snapped; his eyes still on the tray.

"You know, I've heard from multiple sources you are not nearly this snarly with other people, Blaine," She teased him, "If it wasn't my job to stick needles in your arms, I bet you'd even like me."

"After today I don't think there's much chance of that ever happening," Blaine pushed in closer to Kurt's side when she wheeled the tray even further into the room.

She laughed but looked at him sympathetically, "I promise it won't be all that bad. I've done a good job for you before, haven't I?"

Blaine didn't answer. It was true; she had been gentle with him and endlessly patient.

"Could you have a seat on the bed over here, please, Blaine?" She patted the edge of the hospital gurney like it was a favorite pet, "I need you to lie down."

Kurt found Blaine's hand again and tugged him to his feet. Blaine shuffled over to the bed and sat down on the edge. His hand trembled against Kurt's even more than usual.

John came to stand beside Kurt. He squeezed Blaine's shoulder, "You're gonna do fine, champ, just keep breathing, all right?"

Blaine's previous irritation melted; he nodded his head almost imperceptibly and lay back into the bed.

"All right," Mitzi smiled down at him pleasantly, "So here's the drill: we're going to numb your arm first so you won't feel a thing, then we're going to—"

"Can you just do it?" Blaine spoke abruptly; his eyes pleading, "I really, really don't want the play by play."

"Sure," She wiped Blaine's arm with an antiseptic wipe, "if you change your mind and you want me to talk you through it at all, just let me know, all right?"

Blaine jerked his chin down once in acknowledgement.

She plucked a hypodermic needle from the tray and stuck it into Blaine's arm so quickly he barely had a chance to react. Kurt felt Blaine's hand crush down on his for a brief second. He squeezed back.

"See? You almost didn't even know I was doing that one did you?" She patted Blaine on the shoulder.

Blaine let out a fluttery laugh. Kurt recognized it—all nerves and no humor; he brushed his thumb across Blaine's knuckles, "You're doing great."

"How's it feeling?" Mitzi tapped the inside of Blaine's arm a few times.

"Numb," Blaine wriggled his fingers, "I don't like it."

"You'll have feeling back in no time," She pulled more things off the tray, "I know you don't want the commentary to go with all this, but I do need you to know a couple of things. Let me know if you feel any sort of cold sensation in your neck or hear a rushing sound in your ears."

Blaine's eyes widened; his voice hitched in his throat, "Yeah, okay."

"All right, I can't just surprise you with this one, so just try to take deep breaths through your nose," She rubbed his forearm gently, "I know you hate this, honey, but I promise it'll be worth your while."

Blaine turned his head away when she lined the needle up with the soft skin above the crook of his elbow. His eyes found Kurt's; his voice was short; breathy, "Please distract me."

Kurt thought quickly, "Rachel's called me seven times this morning already and David's called me three times. I think we need friends that are a little better at taking the hint that when someone doesn't answer the phone, they don't want to talk to them."

Blaine's nails bit into the sensitive skin between Kurt's thumb and index finger as Mitzi started threading in his PICC line, "What… what do they want?"

Kurt shrugged; tried to give off an air of calm, "They both keep asking what time you have chemo today. I don't know how they've been around you the past week, but they have gotten increasingly weird around me."

"Cancer freaks people out," Blaine closed his eyes tightly.

"They're not acting freaked out, they're acting… excited." Kurt frowned. He hadn't been able to make sense of any of his friends' behaviors.

* * *

"What's a PICC line?" Finn frowned at Kurt across the dinner table.

"It's like a more effective way of delivering chemo—it's a… tube sort of thing that they thread through a vein up to his chest. It's supposed to make treatment work better," Kurt squirmed in his seat; still a little unsettled by the notion, "and it's less poking him with needles."

Finn made a face; studied his own arm, "Does it just stay in there?"

Kurt pushed the spaghetti around his plate; the smell of garlic was making him nauseous, "They want to do four more days of really intensive treatment before leveling out his chemotherapy, so it's supposed to be just for now."

"Poor Blaine," Carol sighed, "How is he doing, Kurt?"

It was the same question she had asked every night for the past ten days. The conversation was a routine part of dinner—how was Blaine, how were his parents, was his hair still growing back in a little—questions as common at the Hudson-Hummel dinner table as 'can you pass the salt' and 'Finn, could you please chew with your mouth closed?'

"He's all right;" Kurt put his fork down on his plate; giving up any impression of trying to eat, "He hasn't been sick yet from the chemo."

Rachel—a regular at dinners now—sighed loudly, "He told me he hates the treatment center on the phone today."

"It's too quiet in there," Kurt ignored his father when he nudged his fork toward his hand.

Rachel studied him with an oddly intense look, "How so?"

"It's like this big room where a bunch of people sit and just wait for their treatment time to be up. They're all older than us," Kurt turned to scowl at his father when he thrust the fork back into his hand.

"Eat," His father said pointedly, but then added in a softer note, "They can put him in a private room if he asks, ya know."

"That'd be even worse," Kurt twirled his fork through the food on his plate, but didn't lift it to his mouth, "He gets all stressed when he's getting chemo—I think it's because the IV freaks him out, but whatever the reason, he needs a distraction, and being alone in a hospital room doesn't lend itself to that very well."

Rachel's face lit up, "Could Finn and I be excused, Carol?"

Finn looked between his girlfriend and his plate still half-filled with food in alarm, "But I'm not fin—Ow!"

"We're going to go get ice cream for dessert," Rachel didn't look at Finn when he leaned over to rub his shin.

"Why'd you kick—ow! You did it again!" Finn scowled and pushed his chair away from her.

Kurt eyed them warily, "I know that look Rachel Berry; you're up to something."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Rachel turned toward the door, "Come on, Finn, you're driving. I have a phone call to make."

Finn hobbled after her miserably and Kurt was left with his parents, irritated and confused.

* * *

His friends had acted strange in increasing numbers—first Rachel and Finn's abrupt departure; then Mercedes coming up with an elaborate excuse for why she couldn't come over to Kurt's for a sleepover, and the strangest of all: Kurt could have sworn he saw Nick and Jeff driving in Lima the previous day; when he texted them to ask about it, they'd both denied it vehemently.

Kurt shook himself from his reverie. He needed to focus on Blaine, "Have they been calling you, too?"

"I, um—" Blaine opened his for a minute to look at Kurt, "y-yeah, they've been calling; I told David it was at noon."

Kurt squeezed Blaine's hand even tighter; he was fairly sure his hand was going to be bruised by the end of the day, "You're doing great, Blaine; she's almost done."

"Whoever said facing your fears helps you conquer them was a damn liar," Blaine said through gritted teeth.

"Lucky for you, I'm done," Mitzi beamed down at him, "How's it feel?"

Blaine turned his head back toward her almost warily; he eyed the thin hose just above the inside of his elbow; he bent his arm experimentally, "Same as any other IV, I guess."

"Good; that's good," Mitzi motioned toward her own head, "No rushing sound in the ears; coldness in the neck?"

"Would that mean you'd have to do it again?" Blaine looked at her wide-eyed.

"Blaine," She eyed him sternly, "You need to be totally honest either way."

"No; my head's fine," Blaine eyed his arm again, "How long's this going to be in for?"

"At least the next five or six days; we'll see what your doctor thinks after that," She turned back to the tray again to retrieve an IV bag, "Now here's the part where you're going to love this thing—no more needles!"

She set Blaine's IV up and let him out of the bed with warnings to make sure he wasn't too dizzy before letting him cross the room.

John checked his watch, "I have a conference call to make; will you two be all right on your own for a while?"

"We'll survive," Blaine waved a hand toward the door, dismissing his father.

Mitzi accompanied them down to the treatment room—a space dubbed the Nancy Inman Common Area—it was all plushy chairs and open, big windows. It was an attempt at some sort of comfortable space for cancer patients and loved ones, but Kurt was nonplussed; it looked the same as the place his mother had received treatment—no amount of serene watercolors on the walls or casual looking furniture could soften his feelings about being in that place. It was a room where people sat to get pumped full of nasty chemicals to fight an even nastier disease and that was all.

Mitzi settled Blaine and Kurt into their usual place, "Do either one of you need anything right away?"

Kurt shook his head; exchanged a few silent nods with other visitors and their loved ones he recognized from the past few days.

"No, thank you," Blaine chewed at his lip; he looked up at Mitzi sheepishly, "I'm sorry for my behavior towards you; it's been uncalled for, I'm just a little—"

Mitzi waved a dismissive hand in the air, "Honey, you are as sweet as sugar and adorable to boot; people have said much nastier things to me without a brain tumor than you have ever come up with. Don't fret over it; focus on getting better."

She prodded at the bag on his IV stand for another moment before smiling and hurrying away to assist another patient.

Kurt and Blaine sat quietly; looking around at the others. The room was silent save for the occasional soft murmurs exchanged between the others.

Kurt sat back in his chair and rubbed his eyes.

"Tired?" Blaine folded his legs up underneath him in his chair—an ugly green Lazyboy that Kurt assumed had been donated to the clinic at some point.

"Just a little," Kurt smiled. In truth, he was exhausted; he'd spent the previous night tossing and turning; falling in and out of fitful naps, "How have you been feeling? Nauseous at all?"

"Nothing awful," Blaine shrugged, "Can we talk about something not cancer related?"

Kurt nodded quickly, he was used to Blaine changing the subject when questions about his health came up, "Finn had an orientation for Ohio State yesterday. He got you a hat I was supposed to give you, but I forgot it at home."

"That was nice of him," Blaine closed his eyes and tipped his head back into the chair, "But I wish I could just come over to your place and get it myself; I miss your family."

"They miss you, too," Kurt ignored his phone vibrating in his pocket, "I'm sure you could come over soon if you're feeling up to it."

Blaine let out a sigh through his nose, "I hope so."

They lapsed back into silence, but Kurt's phone was filling the air with a noisy hum. He let out an irritated sigh and pulled it out of his pocket.

' _Ready for an awesome surprise ? –Rachel'_

He squinted at the text warily.

' _I'm with Blaine at chemo right now… can it wait?'_

Blaine was reading over his shoulder, so as an afterthought, Kurt added another text.

' _Oh God, you didn't try and give yourself a makeover, did you? I really can't fix you if you do any more damage.'_

Blaine let out a short laugh, "Be nice."

"I'm being honest; have you  _seen_ what this girl deems good outfit choices?" Kurt rolled his eyes.

Her name appeared on his screen again in bold, blocky letters. He opened the message and frowned; confused.

' _No and no.'_

He was about to type out another snarky response when the sound of clipped whispers and shoving bodies broke his attention. There was a pack of people walking into the room, and they were not just any people.

"Am I tumor-hallucinating or are two-thirds of our junior year regionals group standing in here right now?" Blaine's eyes went wide as he took in the others; he looked to Kurt with confusion.

"Did you know they were coming?" Kurt asked in equal shock; the others had spotted them and were shoving one another into three lines.

Blaine shook his head, "I—"

Rachel stepped to the front of the group and beamed around the room; her voice shattering the quiet, "Ladies and gentleman, for your listening pleasure, we give you the Warblers and New Directions."

She threw Kurt and Blaine her best smile as she hurried back into the group while the Warblers started up the background harmony to a song.

_If you ever find yourself stuck in the middle of the sea_

_I'll sail the world to find you_

_If you ever find yourself lost in the dark and you can't see_

_I'll be the light to guide you_

_Find out what we're made of_

_What we are called to help our friends in need_

_You can count on me like one, two, three_

_I'll be there and I know when I need it_

_I can count on you like four, three, two_

_And you'll be there 'cause that's what friends_

_Are supposed to do, oh yeah_

Kurt looked in alarm between his friends and the patients around them. The others looked pleased; entertained. Blaine was watching them with wide, almost-uncomprehending eyes.

They sang the entire song, and when they finished, the room broke into applause.

Mercedes stepped in closer to Blaine and Kurt; smiling, "We heard you guys get pretty bored out here, so we thought we'd provide a little entertainment."

"And we wanted you guys to know, we're here for you," David added, "Whenever or whatever."

"I—" Blaine looked near tears. He bit his lip for a moment and reached out a hand to squeeze David's, "… I don't even know what to say."

"I do," Kurt, unlike Blaine, made no attempt to cover his tears. He got to his feet and made a beeline for Rachel. He hugged her tightly, "Thank you."

* * *

_4 Days Later..._

"Kurt, I'm a little surprised to see you here," Elizabeth stepped aside to let him through the door. Kurt took her in curiously—her usual neatly pressed dress and made up face had been replaced by a touch of mascara and a muted pink t-shirt and jeans. She looked exhausted.

"Blaine told me not to come," Kurt admitted as he stepped into the entryway.

Elizabeth looked toward the stairwell; "He won't let me come within twenty feet of him right now."

"Is it the tumor making him angry?" Kurt looked toward the steps too, "He wasn't exactly pleasant on the phone."

Elizabeth shook her head; "Some of it could be from that, but he's always been odd about letting people near him when he's sick. Even when he was a little boy, he made me keep away… I tried to tell him he should have someone with him—"

She fell silent and they both listened to the sound of water running somewhere upstairs.

"He's sick from the chemo," Kurt felt a slight sting in his chest. Blaine had tried to keep him away while he was getting sick.

Elizabeth nodded; her eyes misty, "He hasn't eaten anything in two days and I don't think he slept. They wanted to try and do another three days of chemo right away, but there's just… I don't see how he can."

Kurt strained to hear another sound from Blaine upstairs, but it was quiet.

"I need to go in and see if we can re-work his treatment schedule and his doctor said they can write a prescription for the nausea," Elizabeth looked pleadingly at Kurt, "Would you mind staying here with him for a little while? You don't even have to go up there—"

"Of course I'll stay, Mrs. Anderson; you don't even have to ask."p>

"Thank you, Kurt," she was already pulling her purse out of the hall closet, "It might take a few hours—you know how impossible it is to get—"

"I don't care how long it takes," Kurt wanted to get upstairs to Blaine, "I have your number, I'll call if anything happens."

Elizabeth paused in her flurry of movement to look at him; she squeezed his arm gently, "You're a good boy, Kurt."

Kurt felt a light blush touch his cheeks, "Go on and get going; the sooner you leave, the sooner you can get something to make him feel better."

She nodded quickly and made for the front door. She looked over her shoulder and reminded him one last time that her phone would be on and she'd be back as soon as she could.

Kurt locked the door behind her before turning and jogging up the stairs to Blaine's room, "Blaine?"

Blaine's door was open; the blankets from his bed twisted into a knot of wrinkled sheets on the floor. Kurt could see a yellow line of light slipping out from underneath his closed bathroom door. He knocked softly and let himself in.

Blaine was crouched low on the floor; his elbows resting on the toilet seat and the heels of his hands dug into his eyes. The room held the sickly smell of humidity and stale air. Kurt crossed the small space and crouched down beside Blaine, "Hey you, it's me."

Blaine didn't lift his head to acknowledge him.

"Your mom said you were pretty sick, so I thought you could use some—"

"Get out," His voice was hoarse; muffled.

"Blaine, I—" Kurt touched a hand to his shoulder. He'd known Blaine wouldn't be exactly happy to see him, but the harshness in his voice still stung.

Blaine recoiled from the contact; his voice a half-strangled scream, "Get out! I said get out!"

Kurt's back bumped the wall as he scrambled to his feet. No sooner had he backed out through the doorway than a quick kick from Blaine's foot sent the door slamming shut in his face. He was ready to retreat to the kitchen; try his luck another day but something held him still; suspended him just outside the door. He could hear Blaine being sick again. He sank to the floor on shaky knees; touched his fingertips to the wood.

"Talk to me, Blaine; tell me what's wrong," Kurt leaned his face against the varnished surface.

"Kurt," Blaine's voice was tense, probably on the verge of another round of retching, "go home."

"I'm not going anywhere," Kurt responded quietly.

"I don't want you here," Blaine snapped; his voice sounding even harsher.

"Why not?"

"I just—" He was sick again; silenced momentarily by the chemicals that laced his system and tainted his stomach to the point of turning on him.

Kurt touched a hand to the doorknob but thought better of it. He clenched his hand shut in his lap.

"Please, Kurt, please just go home." His voice was quiet now; trembling.

Kurt could picture him: his knees hugged to his chest; his cheek pressed to the edge of the bathtub for the small comfort of the cold porcelain against clammy skin, "Blaine, why won't you let me help you?"

"Kurt," Blaine spoke through gritted teeth, "Go. Home. Now. I can't handle you being here, I need you to leave, I need you to—"

He was sick yet again, still trying to fit in his demands that Kurt leave, but he could barely get a syllable out. Kurt pressed his open palm against the door, "Blaine, you have to tell me what's going on. There's more to this than you just not liking people being around you when you're throwing up."

It's so much easier to have a conversation through a closed door. Words spilling out like a confession; forgive me lover for I have sinned, I don't remember the last time I felt this vulnerable.

"I..." Blaine was silent for a long time, he took a shaky breath and spoke so quietly, Kurt had to press his ear into the door to hear him, "I just really don't want you to see me like this. This has all been horrible enough, I don't want… I don't want to add this to the list. Please...  _please_  leave."

Embarrassed. Blaine was embarrassed…  _No_ , Kurt decided,  _humiliated_. The boy who had kept it all together for as long as he could remember had fallen apart in less than a month. He couldn't come up with the word for what he wanted to eat for breakfast; was reduced to a panicky mess at the sight of a hypodermic needle nearly everyday; was vomiting up the contents of his stomach. and he was doing it all in front of the boy who worshipped him; who found just about everything he did before this point disarmingly sexy, and he didn't want to do it anymore, didn't want to further degrade himself any further than he already had.

Kurt's mother had never been made terribly ill by her treatment. Kurt vaguely remembered her lying on the couch looking nauseous from time to time, but this with Blaine... he had no experience to go off of with this one, so he did the one thing he knew he was good at. He turned his face closer to the door and sang quietly.

_When you're overwhelmed and you've lost your breath_

_When the space between the things you know is blurry nonetheless_

_When you try to speak but you make no sound_

_And the words you want are out of reach but they've never been so loud_

_If your heart wears thin I will hold you up_

_And I will hide you when it gets too much_

_I'll be right beside you_

_I'll be right beside you_

When he finished, Kurt didn't wait to see if he would be invited back in. He got to his feet and pushed the door open.

Blaine was curled on his side on the floor; one hand balling a fistful of the bathroom rug into his palm to try and provide an outlet other than his mouth for some of the pain in his body. He registered Kurt's presence and lurched into a sitting position, "Kurt, I told you—"

"Shut up," Kurt crouched to pull a washcloth out from under the sink. He stuck a hand under the faucet and waited until the water was icy on his skin before placing the cloth underneath the stream.

Blaine was still protesting his presence even as he knelt beside him, "Kurt, I mean it, I don't want—I don't want you to sit here and watch me puke my guts out. I just really, really want—"

"Well  _I_  really want to be with my boyfriend when he's sick, so I can support him and show I love him as much as I always have," Kurt snapped back, "and, as you should know by now, I get my way, so stop trying to make me leave. I'm not going anywhere."

Blaine opened his mouth to respond but then clamped it shut again; his skin suddenly looked a little grayer around his mouth, his shoulders shuddered, and then he was twisting himself back toward the toilet. It really was awful—his back shook with the effort, one knee kept trying to slide out from under him while he choked and gagged, and it seemed it would never stop. Kurt waited quietly.

When it was over, Kurt stood and went out of Blaine's room to the hall closet. He pulled down a blanket and carried it back with him to the bathroom.

Blaine hadn't moved—he still gripped the side of the toilet like he would topple over if he let go.

Kurt crouched behind him and took hold of his shoulders. When he guided him gently back to sit between his legs, Blaine didn't resist; he collapsed in against Kurt's chest like a ragdoll.

Kurt wiped his face with the washcloth and pressed it to the back of his neck. He wrapped an arm around Blaine to keep him from falling when he leaned forward to grab the blanket. His forehead was still clammy against Kurt's neck, and his body trembled, but when Kurt pulled the blanket up around his shoulders, Blaine let out an audible sigh; his body relaxed just a little.

"You see?" Kurt murmured, "Is the world ending just because you let me help you?"

"I'm supposed to be your boyfriend," Blaine mumbled.

"You  _are_  my boyfriend," Kurt replied easily.

"This is like the opposite of attractive," Blaine made a move to wipe the sweat from his face, but his hand was shaky and he ended up causing the blanket to slip off his shoulders.

Kurt caught his wrist and gently pressed it back down. He dabbed Blaine's face with the washcloth despite it no longer being very cold and pulled the blanket back up around them, "You are the most beautiful person I know, so shut up and stop insulting my boyfriend."

Blaine was quiet. Kurt wasn't sure if he was thinking over the response or if he had fallen asleep. Either way, a few minutes later, he was lurching forward to grope for the edge of the toilet again.

The process repeated once, twice, three times… on and on it went: Blaine retching to the point of barely being able to keep himself upright and then Kurt wiping at his forehead with the washcloth; offering him Dixie cups of water to rinse his mouth out. The cycle wore on and slowly, slowly ebbed to a stop. Blaine was exhausted; his shirt drenched in sweat and his face ghostly white as he pressed himself in closer to Kurt's chest to try and glean some extra body heat.

The room smelled like sweat and vomit and tepid dampness. Kurt rubbed slow, soothing circles between Blaine's shoulder blades as he looked around the little space and allowed Blaine to try and wriggle even closer, "Are you cold?"

"Chills," Blaine mumbled hoarsely.

A light went on in Kurt's head, "I have an idea, but I need to get up for a minute. Is that okay?"

Blaine nodded against his chest, "Sure."

Kurt gently pushed Blaine into a more upright sitting position, he watched him teeter precariously, "Are you all right?"

"'m fine," Blaine tipped himself until he was leaned against the far wall; clutching the blanket close to himself.

Kurt watched Blaine for another minute before turning his attention to the bathtub. He cranked on the faucet and sat back on his heels to wait for it to heat up. He stuck the underside of his arm beneath the tap and twisted the knob until he was satisfied with the temperature before straightening up to deal with the rest of his plan. He threw the crushed paper cups and scattered tissues in the trash; plucked up wet washcloths to drop down the laundry shoot and finally set to work rooting underneath Blaine's sink until he found a bottle of soap. He squeezed the bottle over the tub and watched the bubbles form and multiply underneath the stream of water, spreading out like lace across the top of the water.

Blaine paid him no mind; he'd sunk down all the way to the floor, the blanket pulled all the way up to his chin.

"Come here," Kurt tugged him back upright carefully, "Look it, I started a bath for you, it'll warm you up and it'll make you feel better to be clean."

Blaine looked at the side of the tub with glassy eyes.

Kurt crawled across the little space between them and slipped behind Blaine, "Arms up."

Blaine remained motionless for a minute, but then with almost drunken movements, he lifted his hands above his head.

Kurt worked patiently. He pulled off Blaine's damp t-shirt; his wrinkled pajama pants; his boxers. Blaine objected to none of it, though he wouldn't meet Kurt's eyes. He shuddered when all of his skin was exposed to the cold air of the room.

"Put your arm around my shoulders," Kurt said softly. When Blaine complied; he helped him to his feet and into the tub. He guided him gently back down until he was sitting in the soapy water, "Don't get your arm wet."

Blaine rested his arm on the edge of the tub but said nothing.

Kurt sat back on his heels and bit at his lip. Elizabeth wasn't due home for at least another couple hours… He stood and pulled his shirt off.

Blaine turned to watch him with the same drugged-looking eyes, but his eyebrows lifted just a little when Kurt slipped off his pants.

Kurt stepped into the bathtub and settled himself behind Blaine. He pulled him back gently until the back of his head was resting against his shoulder; the short, dark hair tickling his collarbone and neck. He touched a kiss to Blaine's temple, "Feeling better?"

"Thank you," Blaine nuzzled his head in closer to Kurt's neck, "For everything."

Kurt laced an arm around Blaine's middle; prodded him lightly in the ribs, "Is it really so bad to let me take care of you?"

Blaine tipped his head back to meet Kurt's eyes, "You're wonderful."

"Right back at ya, baby," Kurt winked at Blaine, and wrapped his arm around him just a little tighter.

They sat in silence and watched the bubbles move across the surface of the water and break against the walls of the tub. After a while, Blaine's chin tipped down toward his chest every once in awhile only to quickly jolt back up; he yawned.

Kurt sat up a little straighter, pushing Blaine up with him, "Why don't we get you to bed?"

Blaine caught his wrist, "No, just stay here with me for a bit."

Kurt nodded and settled back into his previous position and wrapped his arms around Blaine's stomach, "Just let me know when you want out."

"'kay," he closed his eyes and lifted a hand to squeeze Kurt's forearm.

Blaine drifted to sleep and Kurt remained still behind him until the bubbles disappeared and the water turned cold.


	13. Chapter 12, Pt. 1

_That slice of cake has to have enough saturated fat to make me go up a pants size from just looking at it for too long._ Kurt stared into the display case and wrinkled his nose.

"Have you decided on anything, sir?" The woman behind the counter smiled at him cheerfully.

"Not yet…" Kurt tried to hide a grimace as he eyed a row of cupcakes that each held more than enough frosting to ice an entire cake, "I'll let you know if I see something."

The woman nodded and moved on to someone else.

Kurt crouched lower to appraise a tray of cookies.  _One of those could work…_

"Hummel?" A familiar voice caused Kurt to almost jump; he looked up to see David Karofsky frowning down at him.

"Hello, David," He straightened up, "What're you doing here?"

"Picking up stuff for my dad's office," David shrugged.

Kurt nodded and glanced back toward the case, "Any recommendations?"

"I'm surprised you eat this crap," Karofsky looked through the glass at the assortment of pastries too, "Don't you like flip your shit over carbs and processed shit?"

"It's an organic bakery and it's not for me, it's for Blaine," Kurt rolled his eyes.

Karofsky suddenly looked uncomfortable; he glanced around the space warily at the few other customers; shoved his hands deep in his pockets, "I, uh… I heard about him being sick and stuff."

Kurt raised and dropped his eyebrows in acknowledgement to the comment and folded his arms across his chest.

An awkward silence sat between them for a long minute while Karofsky shifted his weight from foot to foot, "Is he, um... is he doing okay?"

"He's doing all right," Kurt studied David curiously before adding, "But he has the appetite of an anorexic bird. My newest plan is to coerce him into eating something with enough calories to constitute a weeks worth of food without making him throw up."

Karofsky nodded slowly, "Cool. I mean, like, cool that he's uh, you know, doing good. Or I mean, I guess not good, but, uh—"

"I know what you're trying to say," Kurt said patiently.

Another silence lapsed between them as they both stared through the glass.

"I recognize you," the woman on the other side of the counter suddenly appeared again, this time directing her smile at David, "You've been in here before. Order for Karofsky, right?"

David nodded and handed a twenty across the display to her in exchange for a white cardboard box. He chewed at his lip for a second and then abruptly dug into his pocket to pull out a few more crumpled dollar bills. He dropped them down on the counter and nodded toward Kurt, "That's for whatever he picks out."

Kurt looked over at him in surprise, "David—"

"See ya around, Hummel," David mumbled and quickly turned toward the door.

Kurt watched him hurry off into the parking lot and disappear into a pine green Audi.

"Sir?" The woman behind him spoke hesitantly; she'd obviously been trying to get his attention for a while.

Kurt shook his head and turned back toward the display case and pointed toward a tray, "Sorry… I'll take one of those."

Driving to New Albany was turning into a grueling task in its own right. It wasn't that Kurt minded the distance or the toll it took on his wallet (his father had offered to pay for gas for the drives), no, it was the amount of time it allowed him to spend with his own thoughts. Being with Blaine meant focusing on filling his boyfriend's head with mindless chatter while they took a nearly daily walk around the block; tapping out songs on the piano at his side; rubbing his back and singing quietly when he was sick; it meant never having to focus on anything but the moment, and dropping into bed at night, too exhausted to even finish his moisturizing routine half of the time. Those two hours in the car, though… two hours to let those tiny nagging thoughts that had a nasty habit of taking root in the dark corners of his mind grow so fast and tangled they could snake their way around his entire brain and choke out any other thought. The e-mails piling up about the internship in New York; Rachel quietly asking him about the apartment they still needed to provide the down payment for; the tremor in Blaine's hand that had gotten worse rather than better; the overheard conversation the week before between a crying Elizabeth and somber John Anderson about the possibility of a second surgery. Kurt cranked the volume on his radio so high the speakers groaned an angry rattle and sang along so loud it hurt his throat; the thoughts were still louder. He parked his car haphazardly at the curb and jogged up to the front door, letting himself in and announcing his presence with a loud hello.

"In here!" Blaine called back; his voice muffled.

Kurt listened to the sound of a hair dryer running upstairs as he made his way toward the kitchen. Blaine was sitting on the floor in front of an open cupboard, "Did you fall?"

Blaine made a face at him, "No, my walking has been fine, thanks very much. I'm supposed to be looking for a—a, um…"

"What do you need it for?" Kurt crouched down next to him and peered into the space below the sink.

Blaine's brow was furrowed as he, too, stared in, "To put flowers in…."

"It starts with a v," Kurt offered, already pushing through a few cleaning products, "And are you sure this is where she keeps them?"

"Yeah; positive," Blaine pointed, "…a vase. And we have two of them."

Kurt spied it then. He reached into the far back corner of the cupboard and pulled the thing free; he put it down in Blaine's lap, "Does she care which one you use?"

"You'd be better at reading her mind than me—she keeps forgetting to finish her sentences and then flips out that I'm getting sicker or something when I don't know what she's talking about," Blaine rolled his eyes, "She's calmer during doctor's appointments than she is for this stupid visit from my family."

"She'll get over it once they're actually here," Kurt got to his feet and offered a hand to Blaine.

"You clearly don't know my mother," Blaine made a face and ignored Kurt's hand; he looked at the paper bag Kurt had dropped down on the island, "What's that?"

"It's for you, actually," Kurt eyed Blaine cynically, "Did you eat anything today?"

Blaine shrugged noncommittally and put the vase down on the counter.

Kurt rolled his eyes, "I'll take that as a no."

"I'd rather not start another round of hanging out with the toilet all day with the added bonus of having my family hanging around," Blaine crossed his arms across his chest defensively.

"And if you don't eat you'll end up fainting—at least if you're puking you can lock the door and keep them out," Kurt pushed the bag closer to Blaine's side of the island.

Blaine let out an exasperated sigh but peered down into the bag; his face lit up, "Is this from Carol?"

Kurt snorted, "If I say yes will you be more likely to eat it?"

"Maybe," Blaine pulled the cookie from the bag and eyed it, "this thing is as big around as me."

"Which isn't saying much these days," Kurt looked down at Blaine's t-shirt than hung loosely off his shoulders. His frame had always been petite, but the past few weeks had taken a nasty toll on his weight.

Blaine pulled off a small piece and popped it into his mouth; chewed it thoughtfully.

"Good?" Kurt asked with a smile when Blaine broke off a second, bigger piece.

"Really good," Blaine smiled, "Thank you."

"It's Dave Karofsky you should be thanking, he paid for it," Kurt tilted his head; still confused about the oddly pleasant exchange.

Blaine made a face and dropped the cookie back into the bag.

Kurt laughed, "Don't be like that."

"I want nothing having anything to do with that guy," Blaine pushed the bag further away from him in an added show of his distaste.

"He's not all that bad, Blaine," Kurt pushed the bag back toward him, "He even asked how you were doing. He's not the monster he used to be."

Blaine's scowl faded some, but he shook his head, "I'm full anyway."

"That's fine," Kurt bit back a sigh and plucked the white paper bag from the countertop, "I'll put it in the pantry for later."

"Oh! Kurt, I didn't even know you were coming over today," Elizabeth looked at him with wide eyes when she appeared in the kitchen, vacuum in tow.

"He comes everyday, Mom," Blaine frowned at her.

"Yes, I suppose he does…" She looked momentarily conflicted, but then her eyes lit on the counter, "Oh! You found the vase! Do you think you could put the flowers in it too, honey?"

"Where are they?"

"Blaine, I told you, they're in the refrigerator." She looked him over with concern.

"A. Why are they in the fridge and B. Stop looking at me like that, you just told me to find the vase." Blaine shot her a look before opening up the refrigerator and peering inside, "…and C. I think you need to have  _your_  head checked, because they are definitely not in here."

"Blaine, be nice," Kurt frowned at the back of his head.

"Well they're not!" Blaine opened the door wider and stepped aside for them to see.

Elizabeth moaned, "I could have sworn I bought them!"

"Why do we even need them? They've seen the house—" Blaine slammed the fridge shut in his sudden irritation.

"We can go pick up a bouquet from the store," Kurt touched a hand to Blaine's arm, hoping the contact would calm him down.

"You and Blaine?" Elizabeth looked uncertainly between them.

"Sure," Kurt nodded quickly, "It'll get us out of the house for awhile and you can finish getting ready—love that dress by the way."

Elizabeth looked down at her dress and smiled despite herself, "Thank you, Kurt…. Blaine, get into my purse on your way out and get my credit card. There's a floral shop nearby, Kurt."

"I've seen it before," Kurt assured her, "And Blaine can help me find it if we do happen to get turned around. Any flower preferences?"

"Grandma Helen likes hydrangeas."

Elizabeth looked at Blaine—first surprised and then almost tenderly, "You always have such a good memory for those things, Blaine. Yes, if you can find them, then that would be lovely. If not, pick whatever you like best."

Blaine moved faster than Kurt—snatching the credit card from his mother's purse in the laundry room and hurrying out to wait impatiently at the passenger door of the Navigator while Kurt unlocked it.

"My, my, someone's in a rush," Kurt laughed when Blaine scrambled into the car.

"Do you know how often I get to leave this block save for doctor's appointments with anyone but my parents?" Blaine jumped when Kurt turned the key over in the ignition and the radio turned on to its same previous near ear splitting level.

Kurt punched his palm against the power button quickly, "Sorry about that."

"What were you trying to do in here, go deaf?" Blaine rolled his window down and stuck his arm out into the breeze as they made their way out of the neighborhood.

"Something like that," Kurt smiled off-handedly, "Tell me if you get car sick or something."

Blaine tipped his head toward the window, closed his eyes, and smiled blissfully as the wind hit his face, "Mmm, I won't."

Kurt couldn't help but smile at Blaine's bliss, "You're acting like you've never been let out of the house before."

"The only time I ever get out is for chemo and when my mother takes me with to run errands," Blaine rested his chin on his arm.

"You should have told me you wanted to get out more," Kurt reached over and squeezed Blaine's knee, "We'll start taking drives."

Blaine reached down and squeezed Kurt's hand, "How come you're so good to me, huh?"

"Because I'm selfless, giving, and attempting to get nominated for sainthood," Kurt glanced at him out of the corner of his eye and smiled, "Or maybe I just love you."

When they got out of the car, Blaine was suddenly lagging—he hung back by the car until Kurt half-dragged him into the flower shop, "You are so bipolar—you were practically sprinting to get out of the house, and now you're getting all weird. What's your deal?"

Blaine shrugged and trailed after Kurt through the door, a bell tinkling overhead as they entered.

"Hello! Can I help you two find anything today?" an elderly woman smiled at them from behind a counter.

"Hydrangeas?" Kurt said hopefully, glancing toward Blaine as he wandered toward a cooler filled with bouquets.

"We have a few different ones," She came around the counter and waved for him to follow her to another cooler.

"Blaine, come help pick a color," Kurt called over his shoulder.

"She likes purple ones," Blaine called back.

The woman smiled and opened the case to pull a bouquet out, "Would these do?"

"They're perfect," Kurt nodded, "We'll take them."

"Are these for a lucky girl?" She looked toward Blaine as they made their way back toward the cash register.

"His grandmother," Kurt chuckled.

"Well she's a lucky woman to have such a considerate grandson," She beamed toward where Blaine was sticking his head into a cooler.

He pulled a bouquet of lilies and peonies before joining them at the cash register and handing Kurt the credit card, "These are separate purchases—could you put the hydrangeas on the card?"

Kurt frowned at the second bouquet in Blaine's hand, "What're those for?"

"They're for this guy I know," Blaine grinned; shrugged.

"Yeah?" Kurt nudged him with his shoulder.

"Mmhmm," Blaine nodded, "He's real cute and his fashion sense is impeccable."

"Sounds like my kind of man." Kurt pushed the credit card across the counter and smirked at Blaine.

The woman behind the counter looked between them at first with confusion and then sudden intrigue.

Kurt blushed and smiled a little, but Blaine grinned and took a step in even closer to Kurt's side when it was his turn to pay. The woman's cheeks reddened and she fumbled with his cash as she put it in the register. When she held the flowers back out at Blaine, he lifted both hands in the air, "They're for him, not me."

The woman turned awkwardly to Kurt and held out the bouquet.

Kurt elbowed Blaine and took the flowers, smiling gracefully, "Thank you for all your help."

"Have a wonderful day," The woman seemed to gather herself a little, "I hope your grandmother enjoys her flowers."

As they turned to leave, Blaine gave Kurt a devilish grin.

"What—" Kurt let out a yip of surprise when Blaine grabbed his ass as they made for the door.

The woman at the counter let out an audible gasp.

Blaine burst into laughter as he scrambled out the door and away from Kurt who was wielding his bouquet like a club.

"You are a terrible human being, Blaine Anderson, if that woman has a stroke or something, it's on you." Kurt caught Blaine's back with the flowers once before he could make it around the side of the car to safety.

"First off, don't take out your feelings on the flowers, they didn't do anything wrong," Blaine smiled at him from over the hood of the car, "And secondly, she was like prehistoric; the shock will just liven her up a bit."

Kurt unlocked the car and dumped both bouquets on Blaine's lap unceremoniously as he climbed in, "You are awful."

"I have a brain tumor; I get irrational sometimes," Blaine shrugged, still smiling to himself.

"What was your excuse pre-tumor?" Kurt eyed him dryly when they stopped at a red light.

"Maybe its just been growing in there for awhile," Blaine tilted his head, "The Gap Attack should have been our first tip off."

"Don't talk like that," Kurt frowned.

"I'm only teasing," Blaine rolled his eyes, "Lighten up."

"It's not funny," Kurt gave Blaine one last meaningful look before turning his attention back to driving, "I don't like to think about that."

"The Gap Attack? Me neither."

"Blaine."

Blaine's smile finally slipped, "All right, I get it, and I'm sorry, all right?"

Kurt was quiet for a long time, but then a smile pulled at the corners of his mouth as he pulled into the driveway, "Her reaction  _was_  priceless wasn't it?"

Blaine broke into a grin, "Did you see her face? She looked like she might faint."

"Poor thing was mortified," Kurt took his flowers from Blaine's lap as he climbed out of the car.

"You think?" Blaine mused, coming around the side of the car, "I think maybe she was a little jealous—taken aback that she didn't stand a chance of getting her old lady hands all over my man."

"That's disgusting, Blaine," Kurt shuddered, "She was like a thousand, she did not want to have anything to do with my butt or anything else."

"Anybody with working eyes would want to grab that ass." Blaine insisted, following Kurt to the front door.

"Well in that case, everyone else is doing an excellent job of refraining." Kurt gave Blaine a pointed look as he climbed the steps to the front porch.

Blaine stopped and clasped a hand over his heart, "What are you saying?"

Kurt tried the handle only to find it locked. He rang the bell before turning to face Blaine; one hand on his hip, "I'm saying you have zero ability to keep your hands to yourself."

Blaine was suddenly right in front of him. He dropped his flowers, grabbed Kurt's ass, and pushed their hips flush with one another causing Kurt to let out a little gasp. He licked his lips and smirked, "You're right, I'm terrible."

It had been a long time since Blaine had kissed him like this, Kurt realized, as he tasted the sweet flavor of Blaine's lips against his. The drugs didn't just make him sick, they made him… disinterested. His once constant glances towards Kurt's mouth when he spoke were few and far between, and while he happily curled into his side to sleep and held his hand on walks, kisses were just sweet, quick things.

Kurt savored it; the taste, the feel… he dropped the bouquet and slipped his hands around Blaine's neck. He could have kissed Blaine like that forever if it weren't for the sudden sharp intake of breath behind him.

Blaine's hands dropped to his sides and Kurt whirled around to stare at the open front door with wide eyes. A man stood there—his face a copy of John Anderson's save for a little less aged; the hair a little straighter and lacking the flecks of silver; the eyes brighter. Kurt needed no introduction to recognize him as John's brother. He looked in alarm at Kurt and then turned his attention slowly to Blaine.

"Well, Blaine," His uncle looked him over, "I take it you still like boys."


	14. Chapter 12, Pt. 2

John could hear his brother laughing from across the house one floor up. It had sounded the same since they were teenagers— _loud_. The booming sort of laughter that could make you jump if you were close enough and caught off guard. He dropped the last of the suitcases down on the floor of the guest room and made his way back downstairs in time to see a very flushed Kurt Hummel darting toward the kitchen with too many flowers in his arms.

John watched him go before turning his attention to Harry, "What was that all about?"

"Nothing at all, just meeting a friend of Blaine's," Harry turned Blaine around by his shoulders and looked him over before turning his attention back to his brother, "He doesn't look too worse for the wear—a little scrawnier maybe, but I was picturing something a lot worse the way you were talking, Johnny."

Blaine looked at him questioningly, and, for a moment, John stared back. Blaine—always so little—even smaller than before. Blaine with perpetual dark circles under his eyes. Blaine whose hand never stopped in that little convulsive motion. He wondered what his brother saw… He shook his head from the reverie and realized Blaine was still watching him; waiting, "Yeah, well, he's been doing a little better. Chemo's more spread out now."

"Good to hear it," Harry clapped his hand down on Blaine's arm so heartily, Blaine stumbled forward a step. John resisted the urge to reprimand his roughness. He reminded himself that this was Harry. If he reprimanded him now, he would only have to do it again in twenty minutes when he was too rough again; too loud; too crude. Blaine's lack of filter from time to time seemed to be a gene Harry held as well. John's obnoxious little brother—always in trouble; always doing whatever he pleased ever since they were children while John chased after him trying to clean up the mess. He decided it best to just ignore him for the moment.

John appraised the polo hanging from Blaine's shoulders—a baby pink thing that had previously clung a little too tightly to Blaine's chest for John's taste, "Why don't you go change your shirt and then go say hello to your aunt and grandma?"

Blaine's eyes went wide, "She's here?"

John didn't need to ask for clarification over which she he was referring to, "Of course, she came with Har—"

"Where is she?" Blaine cut him off impatiently.

"In the kitchen with your mother and aunt," As soon as the words were out of his mouth, John understood why Blaine looked so alarmed. John's mother was in the kitchen. Kurt was in the kitchen.

When Blaine turned toward the hall and disappeared, John made no move to try and stop him.

Harry frowned after his nephew before looking up to his brother as he made his way down the steps more fully, "Is that the cancer thing or—"

"No, it's an 'our mother' thing," John looked down the hall toward the kitchen.

Harry nodded his understanding before smiling, "How've you been, Johnny? You look like shit."

"We don't sleep much," John replied tightly.

Harry's smile finally fell; he lowered his voice as though afraid of being overheard, "How's he been?"

"He does all right," John replied vaguely.

"How about that Kurt kid?" Harry laughed to himself, "Blaine seems to like him. He mentioned someone at Christmas, is that the same kid?"

John nodded pertly.

"Do you like him?" Harry ventured.

"It doesn't matter whether or not I like him."

Harry's smile slipped, "You and Blaine getting along okay?"

John resisted the urge to scowl at his brother, "Of course."

Harry held up his hands defensively, "No need to get testy, John, I was just checking."

John tried to get a hold on his sudden irritation, "There's not much room to add Blaine and my differences to all of this mess. Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

How were they already fighting? John was sure the engine of Harry's car was still warm, and he hadn't even seen his mother long enough to say anything past a quick hello. His arguments with Harry were as repetitive as his fights with Blaine. He let out an exhausted sigh, "We do this every time, Harry. Blaine is my son, do not presume to tell me how to raise him. It's easy for you to stand here and act like the open-minded uncle, but what would you do if it was one of your daughters?"

"I'd thank Jesus she's not going to go out and get herself pregnant." Harry cracked a grin but then sighed, "I'm not trying to piss you off, John, I just feel sorry for the kid from time to time; you're even harder on him than you ever were on me and he does okay for himself."

"Did I say anything about not letting Kurt in the house? Did I accuse him of anything?" John snapped.

"No, you didn't, you're right… I'm sorry, I guess I'm just used to having this conversation with you—old habit, really," Harry clapped his brother on the arm and moved toward the kitchen, "But now it's out of the way and we can move on. What do you say to a drink?"

Part of John wanted to bring the argument back; prove his point… but Harry was right, there was little substance to the fight anymore—it was the same conversation every time and it held little purpose that weekend; he opted to accept the subject change. He shrugged in response to Harry's query.

"I have three kids under the age of eight that I just spent nine hours in the car with, Johnny, and your kid has cancer. I think that warrants a very strong drink for the both of us."

Despite his irritation, John couldn't help but smile just a little as he followed after his brother—he was as incorrigible at thirty-five as he had been at fifteen. As they neared the kitchen, the high notes of female voices quickly filled his ears… or maybe it was Kurt talking, too. He couldn't hear Blaine.

"There you two are; what have you been doing out there?" Elizabeth gave him a closed lip smile from over the top of her flowers. The smile that means she is already prepared to throw herself out the window over the presence of her mother-in-law.

"Just chatting," John chanced a look around the room. Kurt was standing beside Elizabeth, looking between a second arrangement of flowers he was tucking into a vase and John's oldest niece, Natalie, who was regaling him with a long-winded account of what she had seen on their road trip. His sister-in-law, Elaine, was standing on Elizabeth's other side with the baby in her arms, eyeing Kurt curiously. Blaine stood sentinel at Kurt's side, holding flowers when Kurt held them out his way.

"Where's Helen?" Harry pulled down two tumblers from a glass-fronted cabinet.

"Harry, really, she's your mother. Have a little respect." Elaine frowned at him.

"She's been freshening up in the downstairs guest room." Elizabeth answered, pulling a stray leaf from a stem a little more harshly than necessary.

"Has she—" John glanced at Kurt and then Blaine, "Have you gotten the chance to say hello, Blaine?"

"Not yet, she was downstairs when I got in here," Blaine's mouth was set in a frown; Kurt pulled a flower from his hand and tucked it in with the rest before giving him a funny smile.

"He's been busy being the assistant florist," Kurt added.

Natalie cut off her story about counting cows on the drive abruptly and frowned at Kurt, "Your voice is kind of high for a boy. How old are you?"

"Natalie!" Elaine cried out; her expression mortified.

"The same age as Blaine; I'm eighteen," Kurt ignored Elaine's embarrassment and smiled slightly, "Are you eighteen, too?"

She giggled; delighted, "No, I'm six and a half."

"I would have guessed at least eight," Kurt brushed the cut stems into his hand before dropping them into the garbage.

"I'm the oldest cousin after Blaine," Natalie said proudly before pointing a finger toward the little girl on the floor, "Ava's only four."

Ava smiled shyly up at Kurt from where she was cradling a baby doll beside her mother's feet.

"Are you our cousin, too?" Natalie looked Kurt over curiously, "I thought Blaine was our only cousin."

"No, I'm not," Kurt glanced at Blaine.

"Kurt's a very special friend of mine," Blaine's hand brushed Kurt's as he handed over the last of the flowers.

Elaine looked Kurt over again from the other side of the island; her suspicions confirmed.

"Like a best friend?"

"Sort of." Blaine nodded.

"My best friend's name is Hannah. Last week was her birthday and we got to go get our nails painted, see?" Natalie fanned out her fingers to show off her glossy purple nails.

Blaine opened his mouth but then closed it; he met Kurt's eyes—a quick, silent conversation played out that John had seen before. Blaine had lost the word for whatever it was he wanted to say.

"They're lovely," Kurt filled, looking down at Natalie's hands, "Very alternative color choice."

Blaine nodded and smiled, "Lovely."

"Blaine, dear, you're home." A voice behind John alerted him to his mother's presence. He hadn't even heard her come up the stairs. She'd changed from her chino colored pants and green top into a powder blue dress that made her eyes seem even more piercingly blue than usual. John wasn't sure if it was the sharpness of her eyes from the dress or the intensity of her gaze on Blaine that made him shift uncomfortably. He took a drink from his glass and was glad for the slow heat it created in his chest.

Blaine's smile fell, "Hi, Grandma."

"Don't just stand there, silly boy, come give us a hug," She held out her arms to him and took a step closer.

Blaine crossed the room and brushed a kiss against her cheek before receiving her embrace stiffly.

She kissed his cheek and held him out in front of her to look over. She studied his pink shirt and then the navy blue beanie atop his head, "How are you feeling?"

"All right," Blaine shifted beneath her hold.

She brushed a thumb over the lipstick stain she'd left on his cheek, "You look tired."

"I'm fine."

Helen looked him over again, but then her smile slipped as her gaze shifted across the kitchen, "And who might this be?"

Blaine turned to look at Kurt; he backed out of Helen's hold, "This is Kurt Hummel."

Kurt crossed the kitchen quickly and held out a hand, "Pleasure to meet you."

Helen studied his coiffed hair, his exposed ankles, and, finally, his extended hand. She shook it lightly but said nothing.

His outfit wasn't particularly ostentatious in John's mind, at least compared to some of the other getups he'd come to the house in—but that gauzy pink scarf; those mint green capris… they set off a thousand alarms in John's mind as his mother looked him over for a second time.

A lull of silence fell over the kitchen. Harry met John's gaze and rolled his eyes before taking a long drink from his glass and clearing his throat loudly, "Natalie, didn't you bring your Barbie's with?"

Natalie nodded exuberantly, oblivious to the tension in the room, "Yeah! Blaine, I brought all of them so we could play!"

Blaine broke his gaze from his grandmother to look at her, "Every single one?"

She nodded again as she climbed down off of her chair at the island, "Dad didn't think they'd all fit, but they did!"

Harry had unscrewed the lid of the brandy again. He tipped it over John's glass and filled it even fuller, "If we decide to go golfing at all while I'm here, I'll have to borrow clubs. Mine had to stay home to make room."

Elizabeth gave John a pointed look.  _Do something._

John looked back toward his mother and son. Blaine's back was straight and his shoulders tense, but, his mother was right; he looked tired. John cleared his throat awkwardly, "Why don't we all go sit down in the family room until dinner's ready?"

The group agreed loudly, all more than happy to escape the awkwardness of the kitchen.

Harry leaned in close to John's ear as they filed out and chuckled, "I think she likes him."

John scowled at him but said nothing.

Natalie half-dragged Blaine toward the family room and pulled at his hand to sit down on the carpet.

"Natalie, be gentle with him," Elaine scolded, "Remember—"

"I know, I know," Natalie huffed and then looked to Blaine conspiratorially, "Mom says we gotta be careful with you."

"Natalie," Elaine groaned and covered her eyes with a hand.

"Well you did!" Natalie scowled at her as she dragged a duffle bag out of the corner.

"She's right you know," Kurt smiled as he sat down cross-legged beside Blaine, "Blaine's a big baby; if you get too rough, he might start to cry."

"Like last Christmas when we watched Toy Story 3?"

Kurt raised an eyebrow, "Toy Story, Blaine? Really?"

"They almost got incinerated!" Blaine's cheeks turned pink.

"I hate it when animated characters almost perish, too," Kurt giggled and nudged Blaine with his shoulder.

John would have been able to ignore the exchange any other day, but all he could feel was a dragging sense of dread in his stomach when he caught his mother's expression.

Natalie dumped the bag of Barbie's out across the floor and plopped down on the opposite side of the pile. She appraised Blaine for a long moment before speaking, "You can be whatever one you want."

"I don't have to be Ken?" Blaine raised an eyebrow in surprise, "You always make me be Ken."

"Well you  _should_  be him 'cause you're the boy," Natalie chanced a look at her mother and then added, "But since you're sick you can pick a girl one this time if you want."

"Lucky me," Blaine chuckled and picked through the tangle of dolls before adding, "You got more since the last time we played. Has your mom been spoiling you?"

"No! You  _never_ come to play with us, Blaine so you never get to see when we get new ones," Natalie batted Ava's hands away from a Ziploc bag filled with dresses.

"You live a long ways away from me," Blaine shrugged.

"Mom told me one time you're gonna move to New York when I start second grade," Natalie looked at Blaine hopefully, "So then you can come play all the time 'cause you'll be so much closer!"

Blaine inspected a Barbie with hair that had been hacked too short, "I'll still be in the a few states away, but we'll be able to see each other a lot more."

John caught Elizabeth's eye, unsure of how to react to Blaine's words. They'd had plenty of late night conversations about the coming year in the privacy of their bedroom, but she shook her head at him. They couldn't just drop it on him. Not yet.

"You're still planning on moving to the city, Blaine?" Elaine spoke tentatively.

"I'm in at NYU," Blaine didn't look up from the mess of dolls and offered no further comment on the matter.

"What about you, Kurt, you just graduated too, didn't you?" Harry spoke up, "What're your plans?"

Kurt, to John's surprise, hesitated before answering, "I… I got an internship with a fashion design company in Manhattan; I'm supposed to start at the end of August."

Harry grinned, "You'll both be living life in the Big Apple then; any plans to be roommates?"

John contemplated smacking his brother across the back of the head.

Kurt and Blaine exchanged a look before Blaine answered, "Not next year; I'm signed up to be in the dorms."

"John; could I have a word with you?" Helen's eyes were still on Blaine and Kurt, "In private?"

His glass was still half full, but John polished it off in one gulp before answering, "Sure."

He could feel Blaine's eyes on his back as he trailed after his mother.

She wheeled around to face him the second they were in the kitchen, "I am appalled, Jonathan."

John flinched.

"If this was one of Harry's children, I'd understand, but this is  _you_ ," Helen shook her head; "I can't believe you've let things get this out of control."

"I'm not sure I quite understand," In truth John knew exactly what she was talking about.

"John, this problem with Blaine is getting worse than ever! It's terrifying enough to think of him living in New York when he's so sick he barely has control of one of his hands, but then to add  _this_ to the equation—" She cut her words short and let out an exasperated sound.

"You noticed his hand?" John hadn't missed the fact that Blaine had kept his hand carefully out of sight either tucked in his pocket or hidden in his lap since he'd arrived home. He didn't know when she would have seen it; maybe when he hugged her…

"That is not the point right now," she let out another disgusted sigh, "I thought you sent him to that private school to help him get  _away_  from these sorts of temptations."

_Yes, because sending my gay son to an all-boys school is the best way to try and make him straight._ Any other point she could have made, he might have taken silently, but that particular topic—the events surrounding Blaine's transfer—was a sensitive issue; his hands fisted almost involuntarily,"You know that wasn't the reason we sent him to Dalton."

It wasn't a direct attack, but she looked affronted all the same. It took her a moment to regain composure; she touched a hand to the gold cross hanging around her neck as though to steady herself, "He needs guidance, John, especially now."

"I'm doing my best with him, Mom, what do you want me to say?" John resisted the urge to rub at his temples.

"John, he has a  _boy_  here, a boy who has him under such a spell that—" her eyes glazed with tears. She didn't finish the sentence.

"I didn't even know he  _existed_  until Blaine brought him home for dinner one—" John cut himself short when he heard the floor creak slightly behind him.

Blaine stood in the doorway; his arms folded across his chest and his expression unreadable, "Mom sent me in for water and meds."

A short silence lapsed over them. Helen recovered first; she smoothed her dress and fixed John with one more look, "I'll let you two talk."

Blaine stepped aside to let her pass. Once she had gone, he moved to the cabinet to pull down a cup.

John quietly pulled down the prescription bottle from a cabinet beside the refrigerator. Blaine didn't meet his eyes as he held the glass underneath the tap.

The room was filled with the homey aroma of herbs and warm food, but it felt wrong against the tension. John cleared his throat and set the pill bottle down beside the sink.

"The smell of all this okay with you?" John broke the silence awkwardly.

"It's fine." Blaine spoke tersely; his eyes on the glass filling in the sink.

"Did you take your other pills this morning before you left?"

"Yes."

"What about the green one; the one for nausea, did you make sure—"

"I took it." He pulled the cup out from under the tap and took a long drink before cupping his palm over his mouth and swallowing down the meds.

John could hear Kurt's laugh from the family room. He glanced at the oven timer ticking down—barely four minutes to go. "It's getting late. We're going to have dinner soon."

Blaine stared at John blankly.

John shifted his weight from foot to foot, "Maybe it's time Kurt should think about getting home."

Blaine stared at him in disbelief. He lowered his glass back to the counter and studied the black granite of the countertop in silence, "That's how it's going to be, then?"

John sighed and hoped silently a fight with Blaine would be easier than one with his mother, "Blaine—"

"You really don't get it, do you?" It wasn't an accusation. There was no venom in the words; no fury in his eyes when he looked back at John. Just a sad question; a quiet realization.

John ran a hand through his hair. Blaine angry he could deal with. Blaine that day only two months prior when John had told him Kurt couldn't come to church—screaming and seething; all fighting words and hateful sneers—John was used to that. He never knew what to do when Blaine gave him this look, though. The look that only quietly whispered,  _I'm so disappointed in you._ He considered lying; he considered twisting it back around on him and turning the conversation back into something combative. He was unsure as to what to say, but he knew he couldn't meet those eyes anymore. He dropped his gaze, "No. I don't."

A silence lapsed between them as Blaine absorbed the information; considered what to do with it. When he spoke, his voice was still sad; soft, "I love him, Dad. Just like you love Mom and just like Mom loves me…"

There was a certain sting in those words, too, or maybe it was the lack of them that hurt. John loved his wife, his wife loved her son. What was John to Blaine, then?

Blaine was talking again, but there was more conviction there, "I have done everything I can to be the man you raised me to be—I am a good person, I work hard for what I want, I try to see some good in everybody, I am as honest as I can be, and I do my best to do right by the people I love. But for some reason, at the end of the day, you look at me and all I can see on your face is how disappointed you are because, despite all of that, you only see me as one thing. It's the same for him—you look at him, and you don't even  _see_  him. He is the loyalist, strongest, and most caring person I know, but you are so incredibly blinded by  _us_ , by the notion of your son and another boy being together, that you can't even begin to realize how lucky I am to have someone so fantastic in my life; someone so incredibly beautiful to love me."

John finally looked at Blaine. Blaine stared back, but then it was his eyes that fell to the ground.

John could see the effort so many words had taken for him; the toll it took to try and keep his voice flowing; the words coming out as they should. His voice was quiet and his eyes were still on the floor when he finally added, "I'm not asking you to go out and buy a rainbow flag for the front porch or to go out in the streets and start campaigning for gay rights. I'm just asking you to accept me. To accept us."

"Blaine, I—" John realized he didn't have a way to finish that sentence. He what? "… Kurt can stay for dinner."

They stared at one another in silence. The timer on the oven went off.

"John! Could you check the chicken?" Elizabeth called from the family room; her heels already tapping closer across the wood flooring.

John reluctantly looked away from Blaine to move toward the oven. Before he could even fully open the door, she was there beside him. Elaine at her side.

"It looks perfect, Lizzy," Elaine smiled, "What do you need me to do?"

"Could you get the salad out of the refrigerator?" Elizabeth pulled an oven mitt from a drawer, "Harry, keep your fingers out of that frosting; if your daughters can keep away from it, so can you. John, dear, could you uncork that bottle of wine on the counter? "

John stepped toward the island and out of his wife's way. Blaine was standing by the sink; watching the production quietly; he met John's eyes.

The volume and movement of the room steadily increased—pots banging; Harry laughing; Elaine and Elizabeth fussing over the food.

"Where is that serving plate?" Elizabeth turned around in a frazzled circle, "I can never remember where I keep it."

"I can get it," Blaine tore his eyes away from John and moved to a high cabinet, his head tipping up to study the shelves.

"Blaine, be careful, if—Oh! Ava, honey, keep your hands away from the oven, it's hot!" Elizabeth scooped her niece from the floor and away from the open oven door only to be greeted by shocked tears.

"Mom! Look how Kurt did Skipper's hair!" Natalie came running in, a doll held high above her head, "Mom! Mom! Look at it!"

"Honey, just a moment, I'm trying to get this chicken out—"

The kitchen was a cacophony of sound and dizzy with movement; everyone caught up in their own production. Only John was watching Blaine standing on his tip toes; reaching high above his head, his fingertips brushing the edge of the glass serving tray that had been a gift for his and Liz's wedding, "Blaine, be careful."

Blaine didn't hear him; his fingers closed over the lip of the plate and he eased it forward slowly until half of it was off the shelf. He stumbled a little; off balance on the little support offered by his tip toes, and the plate dipped forward. He reached up quickly; tried to regain his hold on it, but in his panic, he'd lifted his right hand to it; his fingers grasped onto it only long enough to jerk it forward before letting go.

The sound of the plate shattering on the ground was loud. Definitive. The room stilled—even Ava stopped crying to look in alarm toward the sudden noise. Blaine's face went white. He was on his knees, trying to gather up shards of glass before anyone else could react. His right hand spasmed in its usual tick, but he ignored it.

"Blaine, don't, you're going to—" Elaine leaned over to touch his shoulder, but let out a soft, surprised breath when he recoiled from the touch. She retracted her hand and looked to her husband helplessly.

"Blaine, come on now," Harry stepped in closer, "Get up off the ground. Be a good—"

"Shit," Blaine hissed. A red line of blood snaked down from his palm, but it didn't hinder his attempt to clean up the mess, if anything it fueled it; he worked faster, more desperately.

John opened his mouth; prepared to step in, do  _something,_ but he didn't know what to do. What to say.

Kurt knelt beside him and caught his wrist in his hand, ignoring the blood that seeped over his own fingers, "Blaine."

He kept trying to gather up glass in his free hand, but the movement was less determined; slower. Finally he stopped all together, his eyes cast down to the mess on the floor.

Everyone was silent.

Blaine didn't look up, "I'm sorry."

His words sent the entire kitchen into motion again; everyone in a sudden overly-cheery flurry.

"I'll get the vacuum, don't fret about it, dear," Elizabeth was gone from the kitchen before she'd even finished the sentence.

"Happens to the best of us, sport," Harry spoke cheerily; waved his glass of brandy as though to cheers the occasion. He frowned at its near empty state and went to refill it.

"It was an accident." Helen stood in the doorway, her eyes focused on Kurt's grip on his wrist.

"Oh, Blaine, your hand! Don't worry, we'll clean it up. John, where's your medical kit?" Elaine ushered the children away when John didn't respond, happily informing them they were going to go on a scavenger hunt for Band-Aids.

Blaine remained motionless; his eyes still scanning the floor until they came to rest on his bloodied hand, and then, finally, Kurt's eyes, "I—"

"I know." Kurt brushed his thumb over the soft skin inside Blaine's wrist. They stared at one another and John stared at them. Something tingled in the back of his neck; sent a strange ripple of understanding through his brain.  _There it was_. It wasn't the brush of his thumb or the understanding gaze—it was something in Kurt's tone. In everything behind those words.  _'I know.'_

It was love and it was so impossibly real.

John knelt down quietly, careful not to disturb the other two, and gathered up the larger shards of glass.

"Sorry," Blaine whispered again; John could feel his eyes on him; watching the quick, agile movement of his fingers as he gathered up the jagged pieces of the plate.

_So am I._ John bit back the words before they could come out. He straightened back up before going to drop the mess into the garbage can, "Never liked that thing anyway."

Blaine didn't smile at the joke.

Suddenly, the others were reassembled, and all of their noise came with it; Elizabeth towing the vacuum behind her, Harry with his refilled cup; Elaine to fuss at Blaine to come sit down so they could tend to his hand.

Blaine got to his feet and allowed the momentary fawning without comment.

Helen was still watching Kurt as he brushed the smaller pieces of china from his knees before murmuring something in Elizabeth's ear. Slowly, surely, the kitchen returned to some state of order. The glass was thrown away; the vacuum put back in the hall closet; the food dished onto plates. Blaine was instructed to sit at the table with the little girls until food was served.

"How come you're sitting with us already, Blaine?" Natalie swung her feet in her chair and walked her Barbie across the tabletop contentedly.

"Because I'm in trouble," Blaine smiled half-heartedly at her.

"Blaine, nobody is upset!" Half of the kitchen shouted back at him.

He raised his left hand in the air defensively, "All right, all right, I'm not in trouble. I'm just being kept out of the way."

"Mom says I hurt more than I help sometimes," Natalie informed him.

"You and me both," Blaine sighed, "Let me see Skipper's hair."

Everyone kept touching him as they passed; little affectionate gestures in an attempt at brushing away the broken plate—Elaine squeezed his arm when she settled the baby into her highchair, Helen's hand brushed his back as she laid out napkins, Harry tugged at the back of his hat with a laugh as he passed on his way to the bathroom. Only John maintained his distance until they had all taken their seats at the table.

Blaine answered questions and listened politely to the chatter around the table, but he remained subdued, a smile only gracing his face when Kurt leaned in closer from time to time to murmur something in his ear. He didn't look at John.

"Do we have to go to church tomorrow?" Natalie groaned.

"Hate church," Ava added with a scowl.

"Girls, we go to church every Sunday, this is nothing new." Elaine sighed as though this were a battle she'd endured a few too many times before.

"But we're on vacation," Natalie whined, "You're s'posed to have  _fun_  on vacation."

"God works to make your life wonderful every single day, the least we can do is go and say thank you to him once a week," Helen fixed Natalie with a serious look, "What if Jesus just decided he didn't feel like doing all those good things he did for you, hmm?"

"That would have been bad," Natalie sighed and pushed the salad greens around her plate, "But church is so  _boring_."

"Not everything is about fun, Natalie." Helen scolded.

"We'll go out for breakfast afterward," Harry turned his attention from cutting Ava's chicken to his oldest daughter, "How about that?"

Natalie nodded excitedly; oblivious to the scowl her grandmother was giving her father.

Helen's attention shifted to Kurt and John knew what was coming.

"And you, Kurt, do you…attend mass?"

Blaine stopped playing with his food, his shoulders suddenly tense. He didn't look up, but John watched Kurt, suddenly equally uneasy.

"I'm not religious." Kurt took a sip from his glass of water, his demeanor perfectly at ease.

"Oh?" Helen watched him from across the table; her fork hanging daintily from her fingers.

Kurt nodded coolly, "I respect your beliefs and anyone else's. They're just not mine."

"Kurt's more than willing to come to mass with us," Blaine suddenly spoke up, his eyes moving to John, "But some thought it might be inappropriate."

Helen put her fork down slowly; her gaze fixed on Blaine in a way John remembered from his own childhood. It was the look that meant she was going to explain the ways of the world; the way things are. The way things should be. "Perhaps that's true."

"And my presence  _is_  appropriate?" Blaine's hand brushed Kurt's fingers on the table almost imperceptibly.

"You were born into the church, Blaine, just because you've been lead astray—"

"Lead astray?" Blaine echoed, "I have a brain tumor, Grandma, you're going to have to be a little more succinct with me—faulty processing and all that, you know."

"Blaine," John hissed his name; he knew the look on Blaine's face even better than he knew the look on his mother's. Nothing good would come of this conversation, "Not now."

"It's perfectly all right, John," Helen spoke calmly, her gaze never leaving Blaine, "I mean your choices in the people you choose to be romantically involved with."

"I got drunk and kissed a girl two years ago at a party, would that be more to your liking?"

"Blaine!" Elizabeth breathed out his name; her eyes wide, "Honey, please."

Helen's eyes went to John, full of accusation, but her words were directed to Blaine, "You're still a child, Blaine; children make mistakes all the time—alcohol is as much of a sin as being with men—"

"I'm not with  _men_ ; I'm with him," Blaine's hand closed around Kurt's wrist lightly, "Only him."

"Blaine, you're going through something devastating right now with your cancer," Helen spoke slowly, "But you are also being given the chance to meditate on your life and your decisions; the people you choose to spend time with."

Blaine's hand pounded down on the table so hard, John startled in his seat. His voice was a near snarl when he spoke, "How dare you."

Helen looked unruffled; like she had expected the affront, "Blaine, there is no need for theatrics. I am trying to help you see the error in your decisions, you're a smart boy, and I love you very much—"

"You do not love me.  _He_  loves me." Blaine's hand brushed Kurt's arm again, "Love is unconditional—it doesn't make rules, isn't that what the bible says?"

"The bible says it is wrong to lie with another man, Blaine." She spoke calmly, "We've been through this conversation before."

"Then I guess I'm going to hell." Blaine spoke through gritted teeth.

"Blaine!" Elizabeth's hand flew to her mouth, "Honey, please, don't talk like that, it's so morbid. I know the tumor can make you—"

"This is not the tumor talking; this is me talking!" Blaine shouted.

Natalie burst into tears, "I d-don't w-w-want B-Blaine to g-g-go to hell!"

"He's not! He's not!" Harry dragged a hand through his hair and exchanged a weary look with his wife, "Blaine's fine. We're all fine."

"Blaine is clearly not fine," Helen looked at Blaine pointedly, "Blaine, you are being irrational right now. I know you know in your heart what is right."

"I know that I—" Blaine clamped his mouth shut; his expression suddenly woozy.

Blaine's skin was strangely ashy; his eyes went down to his plate. Kurt, who had been uncharacteristically silent through the entire fight, was suddenly standing, pulling at Blaine's elbow almost urgently.

Blaine's chair tipped over backward and hit the wood floor with a bang as he lurched to his feet. They disappeared around the corner; Blaine's hand clapped tight over his mouth and Kurt half-pushing him toward the bathroom.

All three girls were crying now; Elaine pulled the baby onto her lap and tried to sooth her over the noise. Elizabeth was on her feet, moving to pull a prescription bottle from the cupboard before disappearing down the same path Blaine and Kurt had just taken.

John sat silently beside his mother; staring into the suddenly vacated space on the other side of the table.

His mother's voice was so quiet he almost didn't hear her, "You need to get him out of here, John. This environment is toxic to his soul; Harry told you about the clinic by them, didn't he? He could do his treatment there, and I know an excellent priest who specializes in dealing with youth who are troubled—"

"He's not troubled." John didn't break his gaze from the toppled chair.

"John, it is your job as his father to teach him right from wrong; to lead him down the right path."

"He doesn't need me to teach him anything," John turned his gaze to his mother finally. For once, he didn't feel ten years old beneath her reproachful scowl, "He is a good boy."

"Of course he is John," Helen looked him over quickly as though she feared him suddenly growing horns and a tail, "Blaine is a wonderful child, but he has people around him who are leading him into this terrible temptation. I know you feel horrible about him being sick, but allowing him to keep the company of that boy—"

"Kurt," John cut her off, "He has a name. It's Kurt."

Helen pursed her lips and fixed him with her fiercest look, "The devil comes in all sorts of disguises, John."

Harry let out a short laugh, "The kid is hardly the devil, Mom. Seriously, give the kid a break, he's barely eighteen years old and you were tearing him a part right to his face."

Helen ignored him; her attention fully on John, "His presence will kill your son."

"He is  _saving_ my son," John was shocked at the sound of his own voice—loud and angry and aggressive. It felt…good.

Helen regarded him almost warily. Her voice was tight when she finally spoke, "I will not tolerate his presence so long as I am in this house, John."

"Then I suggest you find somewhere else to stay for the remainder of your visit."

"John," Finally, she was shaken; her eyes betrayed. John felt the slightest twinge of guilt in his chest.

"I am not saying you have to leave," He spoke a little more quietly; broke eye contact, "But I can't have you upsetting him like that while you're here—he doesn't need another thing to stress him out."

She was silent, her expression calculating. Long before she said anything, John knew she would not leave nor would she give up her fight for Blaine's saving. Things were never simple with his mother.

Sure enough, she nodded slowly, "Fine."

"And you can't attack Kurt like that," John glanced toward the empty chairs again, "It sets Blaine off, and Harry's right, Kurt… he's just a kid."

She looked thoughtful again, though John couldn't even begin to guess over what was going through her mind. She nodded shortly, "Fair enough."

Elizabeth walked back into the kitchen; her expression tired.

"Everyone all right?" Harry pulled her chair out further for her.

"He's sick—he doesn't ever eat this much; I think it was just hard on his stomach on top of so much activity…" Elizabeth's eyes flitted to Helen and then back to Harry as she took her seat, "He's going up to bed."

"No chance of a recoup?" Harry checked his watch, "It's not even eight yet."

She shook her head, "He had a busy day. I don't think he'll be sick anymore, but he's done in for the night, I'm sure."

"Does he need someone to be up there with him?" John wasn't surprised when his mother's tone was calm. She would rather die than appear ruffled.

John met Elizabeth's eyes and asked her a silent question.

She gave an almost imperceptible nod of her head in response.

"No," John lifted his glass to his mouth and took a long drink; letting it burn his throat and warm his chest, "He's fine."

"Can we go see him?" Natalie sniffled and wiped her nose on the back of her arm.

"Not now, dear, he needs a little bit of time to rest." Elaine handed her her fork, "Finish your dinner."

Slowly, conversation filled back in, but John couldn't focus. His eyes drifted constantly to the two empty chairs across the table.

When the meal was over, Harry took the baby to the family room to rock, and Elaine corralled the girls to the upstairs bathroom for a bath before bed.

"I think I'm going to go to bed," Helen spoke quietly, "It's been a long day for everyone."

"Do you know where the extra blankets are in the downstairs guest room?" John wiped off the tabletop and returned the dripping cloth to the sink; careful to avoid his wife's elbows when she attacked scrubbing a pan with shocking energy.

"Yes," Helen looked toward the stairs leading to the second floor thoughtfully for a moment, but then, with a shake of her head, she moved toward the basement steps, "What time is church in the morning, John?"

"Nine."

"Lovely," She nodded once, "Good night."

"Night." John mumbled.

Elizabeth said nothing until Helen had disappeared behind the faint click of a door downstairs. She slowed her scrubbing. The abrasive sound of her sponge on sticky metal was replaced with the quiet whir of running water. Even after the suds had disappeared down the drain, she remained standing with her hands in the sink; warm water running over her fingers and pooling in the edge of the pan.

"I can dry that if you want." John spoke quietly; nervous to break the calm that had finally settled over the house.

She kept staring down into the water running over her hands, "I don't know if I believe in hell."

John was silent.

She looked up at him; her chin angled down almost defiantly, "Our son is good, John."

He nodded, "I know that."

She held his gaze for a minute longer before looking back to the sink and turning the tap off. She dried her hands on a dishtowel hanging off the handle of the dishwasher, "I'm on the verge of killing your mother."

John didn't offer a reaction.

Elizabeth pulled a second rag from a drawer to dry the pan. She stared down at it between her hands, "I know you feel the same way."

"I don't hate my mother," John let out a long sigh, "She's just... very stuck in her ways."

Elizabeth dried the pan and crouched down to push it back into its place with the rest beneath the oven. She looked up at him solemnly, "That doesn't mean you can't tell her what you believe, John."

John felt suddenly exposed; nervous. He looked down at his shoes but offered no account of the exchange with his mother at the dinner table.

Elizabeth sighed as she straightened back up. She moved closer to him and smoothed his collar, "Are you going to go say goodnight to Blaine?"

It wasn't really a question. There was only one night in his memory he had passed the closed bedroom door without saying anything, "I doubt he's still awake."

Elizabeth ignored the comment and smiled at him, "I'll be up in a minute; I'm going to see if Harry needs any help getting Abbie to sleep."

John made his way quietly up the stairs, listening to the faint sounds of Natalie and Ava splashing in their bath. Before he could reach the doorknob, the handle of Blaine's door turned; the door pushing open slowly. Kurt appeared, looking just as surprised to see John as John did to see him. His hair was disheveled on one side as though he'd been laying on it, and his eyes looked sleepy.

John tried to look past him into the room, but the whole room was bathed in murky shadows, "Did he get sick at all again?"

Kurt smiled sleepily, "Just once when we first got up here, and it was nothing really. He's been asleep for awhile now."

John nodded; he was blocking Kurt's exit down the hall, "I… I'm sorry about dinner. It was completely uncouth for us to have that type of an argument with guests present."

Kurt shrugged, "At least it was interesting."

The ease of his response; the casual shrug as though being berated by a near-stranger was as normal as being asked for the time of day made it even worse; made his mother's words burn his cheeks with an even deeper embarrassment. John looked away, his voice uncertain, "My mother is…."

"Blaine's told me," Kurt supplied.

"Right…" John watched Kurt barely stifle a yawn.

"I've got a long drive; I should get going," Kurt rubbed his eyes.

"You could sleep here," John blurted; his voice a little too loud compared to their previously hushed whispers, "That is, if you feel too tired to be driving all the way back."

Kurt's eyebrows went up almost imperceptibly. It took him a second to respond, "I'll be fine; my dad will kill me if I don't get back, but thank you for the offer… I appreciate it. Really."

John stepped out of the way finally and let Kurt pass.

Kurt turned at the top of the stairs to offer him one more awkward wave before disappearing down the steps.

John listened to the sound of the front door creaking open and then clicking shut before quietly slipping into Blaine's room. When he shut the door behind him, he was momentarily surrounded by darkness. But, as his eyes adjusted, he realized there was enough light from the streetlight to make out the faint outline of the desk; the armoire; the bed. He crouched lower and felt along the wall until his fingers lit upon their desired item: the nightlight purchased in an attempt to save a few stubbed toes during the night if Blaine had to make a dash for the bathroom. He flipped the little switch on it and the room was suddenly bathed in dim, yellow light. He stood and moved toward the bed quietly until he could see Blaine—one hand cast up above his head on the pillow, the other draped across his chest; the hat finally off. As silently as he could, John touched a hand to Blaine's head. The short dark hair was beginning to turn soft. He brushed his thumb over the thin line of scar tissue gently.

"Kurt?" Blaine mumbled; stirring in his sleep.

"He went home for the night; it's just me," John whispered back.

Blaine's eyes opened and he turned his head to look at the vacated space beside him as though to confirm the news.

"How do you feel?"

"Better," Blaine murmured, his hand finally coming down from above his head. He brushed his knuckles across the empty pillow beside him.

"Do you need anything?" John realized his hand was still on Blaine's head, but he couldn't bring himself to pull it away.

"No," Blaine mumbled.

"I didn't mean to wake you up." John finally forced himself to pull his hand away, "I wouldn't have come in if I thought you were already asleep."

Blaine smiled at him faintly, "You always come in to say good night whether I'm asleep or not."

John didn't know how he knew; he didn't really want to ask him, so he opted to ignore the comment, "Well, good night then. Your aunt and uncle are in the guest room next door and your mother and I are right down the hall if you need anything."

Blaine nodded. His eyes were far off; thoughtful, "Could you sit down for just a minute?"

"Sure thing," John sank down slowly onto the edge of the bed; unsure of what Blaine could want.

Blaine studied him in silence for a long minute before speaking quietly, "I heard what you said to Grandma Helen…about Kurt."

John swallowed, "...You heard that?"

Blaine nodded; chewed at his lip, "Thank you, Dad... For trying."

"That's…" John swallowed down the sudden lump in his throat, "That's my job."

He was rewarded with Blaine's fingers brushing his briefly. Neither one said anything more. When Blaine's breathing slowed into the quiet intervals of sleep, John remained seated on the edge of the bed.

He gazed around the bedroom—the Ohio State hat hanging from the bedpost; the stack of gossip magazines and outdated copies of  _Vogue_ on the nightstand; the Polaroid of Kurt, just barely visible in the half-dark, tacked to the side of the full length mirror. John remained still, careful not to jostle Blaine, and took it all in. The room had been so free of character for those years Blaine spent in the dorms at Dalton, but now the whole space hummed with Blaine… But something else, too—the garbage can pulled flush beside the bed frame for 'just-in-case', the line of orange prescription bottles on the desk; that little neon yellow stress ball Blaine was constantly closing his right hand around for hours at a time sitting abandoned near the open closet door—it clashed with that bubbling melody; that happy song of Blaine-ness in everything, but it couldn't overpower it. John could practically feel Blaine darting around the room, climbing over the top of the bed rather than going around it to get to the mirror, singing the entire time he got dressed, laughing on the phone as he promised that he would be no more than fifteen minutes late. Blaine everywhere.

He lifted a picture from the nightstand and turned it toward the window until the streetlight illuminated it in a ghostly orange glow. Kurt was holding a crown to his head as though he feared it might fall; Blaine had his arms wrapped around Kurt's middle, his chin on his shoulder. They were both laughing. John replaced it carefully and stood slowly; his knees cracking in protest and the mattress groaning over the sudden loss of his weight. He gazed down at Blaine—one arm already cast back above his head; a leg stretched at a funny angle beneath the blankets. Gently, John tucked the covers up higher around his chest. He considered touching a kiss to the top of his head…

A thin sliver of light suddenly grew across the room as the door creaked open quietly. Elizabeth crossed the room silently and came to stand beside John. She let out a quiet laugh, leaned over, and tucked Blaine's hand back down under the blankets. She touched a kiss to his forehead; whispered something in his ear. It was so easy for her to show him how much she adored him.

John let out a quiet sigh and shook his head as he turned away from the bed and retreated to his own room. He lay on his back and listened. The quiet of the house was different that evening—humming with the presence of more than just their little family of three— an almost tangible hum of tension from his mother in the basement—praying angrily for the astray souls of her family; the padded sound of footed pajamas in the room next door. John closed his eyes and could picture them all—rosary beads sliding between fingers; his wife touching one more kiss to their son's forehead; his nieces, glassy eyed and subdued, listening to a bedtime story; Kurt blinking sleepily at the patch of illuminated road in front of his headlights...

It had been a long time since John had slept soundly—for weeks, the quiet had been too complete, every sound had Elizabeth shaking his elbow, whispering urgently.  _Did you hear that? Do you think he's all right? Is he sick? Should I go check on him?_ It wasn't as though Blaine would allow their presence in his room anyway if he  _were_  sick, but still they would lie awake, listening for the quiet groan of floorboards to tell them the story of Blaine's movements. The hum of all those people was oddly nice- a soothing lullaby filling the usual silence that left too much room for interpretation.

By the time Elizabeth slipped into their room, John was asleep. He didn't wake once until the sun was pouring through the window—the quiet sounds of night replaced by the buzz of a Sunday. It was a new day. It was time for church.


	15. Chapter 13

Kurt stared at his computer screen. The 'Message Sent' screen stared back.

He wasn't sure why he was still sitting there; he'd promised Blaine he'd be in New Albany by noon, but a glance to the top right corner of his screen informed him it was nearing eleven. He considered reading through the message one more time; his pointer hovering over the sent messages icon… but what was the point? It was done.

With a definitive click, he shut the laptop and rolled off his bed to inspect himself in front of the mirror. He turned from side to side; inspecting his hair and then his outfit—he looked perfect, of course—dark jeans and a maroon button down sweater vest that reached nearly to his knees. Blaine liked that vest; he'd be sure to comment on it. Kurt met his own gaze in the glass, and, much to his dismay, his eyes were red.

"Stop it." He whispered to his reflection. He straightened up even taller; angled his chin and tried to smile. It was a little better.

He typed out a quick message to Blaine informing him he was running late as he jogged down the steps.

"Kurt, honey, is that you?" Carol called from the kitchen.

"Yes, I'm going to Blaine's," Kurt grabbed his keys off the hall table and made for the garage door.

"Wait!" Carol hurried out of the kitchen and shoved a Tupperware into his hands with a smile.

Kurt tipped it sideways to try and look through the clear plastic, "For Blaine?"

"Yes, and his little cousins," Carol touched two quick kisses to Kurt's cheek, "One of those is for him, too. Tell him we miss having him over."

"He misses you, too. He tells me all the time," Kurt glanced at the hall clock, "I shouldn't be too late tonight."

"Just make sure you call before you leave," Carol looked him over, her smile fading a little, "Are you feeling all right?"

Kurt frowned at her, "I'm fine; why, do I not look all right?"

"You look as dashing as ever, honey," Carol laughed a little, "You just seem… I'm not sure really, just a feeling I suppose. Have a nice time with the Andersons."

"I will; thanks again for baking for Blaine; he worships your cooking," Kurt moved toward the door.

"As soon as he's feeling up to coming over, I'll make him anything he wants," Carol stood in the open door to the garage as Kurt climbed into his car.

"You'll regret that offer if you actually follow through with it," Kurt smiled and waved to her as he pulled out of the driveway.

He'd barely gone a mile when he noticed the little light by his gas meter. He groaned, wishing he'd had the foresight to fill up the tank the night before. He pulled into the nearest gas station and climbed out, irritated by the additional time it would take to make it to New Albany. He leaned against the side of his car and watched the numbers rise.

"Kurt?" A female voice sounded from the other side of the pump and then a head of pretty blonde hair was poking around the side to look at him. Quinn.

He smiled for her, "Hi."

She glanced at the meter on her side of the pump before coming around to his side with a smile, "I thought I recognized your car; how are you?"

"I'm all right," Kurt smiled faintly, "And you?"

"I'm fine," Quinn folded her arm across her middle, "How's Blaine? I haven't seen him since that chemotherapy thing."

"He's all right," Kurt glanced toward his meter as the numbers continued to climb, "I'm going to see him right now."

She nodded and stood quiet by his side for a moment before speaking again, "I'm on my way to a job interview."

Kurt looked her outfit over—a navy cardigan over a lemon yellow dress—"Well, I must say you're certainly dressed to impress. What's the job?"

Quinn's eyes stayed trained on the gas pump, "Receptionist at some real estate company my mom's friend works at."

"It's a step in the right direction, right?" Kurt offered lamely, "You wanted to go into real estate."

"It's what I always thought I'd do. It's not exactly glamorous, but…" She finished the sentence with a shrug. The numbers came to an abrupt stop on Kurt's meter.

"Yeah, well," Kurt pulled the pump from the car and replaced the fuel cap, "Life isn't always as pretty as we want it to be, is it?"

Quinn blushed and looked down to her shoes, "No, I guess not."

On an impulse, Kurt reached out and squeezed her arm lightly, "It was nice running into you Quinn."

She looked up to his eyes and smiled, "You, too… I wish it would happen more often."

"Would planned coffee dates be up to par with serendipitous rendezvous' at the gas station?" Kurt quirked an eyebrow.

She laughed a little, "I'd like that. I have your number; I'll call you."

"Good luck with the interview," Kurt smiled at her one more time as he climbed into his car.

"Thank you; tell Blaine I say hi," She waved before dipping back around the pump to her own car.

Kurt watched her in his rearview mirror as he turned back out onto the road and felt a pang of hurt in his chest. Poor Quinn.

As he'd grown accustom to doing, he turned up his music too loud for the long drive ahead and willed his mind blank until he was parking behind Harry and Elaine's Escalade in the driveway.

Kurt snatched the Tupperware from the passenger seat and jogged up to the door.

Harry opened it and looked him over with a smile, "Well, Kurt, I almost didn't recognize you out here without Blaine plastered to your face."

Kurt was fairly certain his face was the same color as his vest, "I, um—"

Harry laughed and stepped aside to make room for him to come in, "Relax, Kiddo, I'm only joking. You came just in time for the show, by the way."

"Show?" Kurt frowned at him in confusion.

"The women are putting on all kinds of theatrics; Blaine hit his head."

"He  _what_?" Kurt snapped, looking around wildly for where Blaine might be.

"Not you, too," Harry groaned, "He's perfectly all right, he says so himself."

"Blaine would insist he was okay if someone ran him over with their car," Kurt shook his head, "Where is he?"

"Kitchen," Harry motioned a hand toward the room, "Be careful, though, he's got a nasty temper today, too."

"Perfect," Kurt rolled his eyes and hurried toward the kitchen.

"—Are you sure it's not—"

"Yes."

"Blaine, you didn't even let me finish."

"You've asked the same three questions fifty times!"

"Blaine, stop shouting."

"Stop asking me if I'm all right!"

The women were standing in a ring around Blaine where he sat in a kitchen chair. Kurt brushed past them and eyed the icepack Blaine was holding to his forehead, "What happened?"

Blaine scowled at him, "Nothing!"

"He fell playing with the girls," Elaine folded her arms across her chest.

"And you've all turned it into such a fucking big deal that Natalie's upstairs bawling her eyes out because she thinks she's half-killed me!" Blaine glowered around at them.

"Blaine, language," Helen scolded.

"I will stop swearing when you all stop acting like I'm going to drop dead from cracking my head on the coffee table." Blaine snapped at her. Three days had done little to ease his feelings toward her since their fight at the dinner table.

Elizabeth glanced at the clock and then back at Blaine, "I still think we should take you in just to check—"

"Check what? If bumping my head has somehow made the tumor grow?" Blaine glowered at her.

"He won't even let us look at it," Elaine gave Kurt a tired look.

" _He_  is sitting right next to you and doesn't—" Blaine's eyes went down to his lap as though searching for the dropped word.

"Appreciate being talked about like he's not even here?" Kurt filled.

Blaine's eyes drifted up to meet his, "Yes."

Kurt appraised Blaine for a minute and then turned his attention to Elaine, "I propose a deal."

Helen turned to look at him suspiciously but waited quietly for him to continue.

"If Blaine will let one of you check his head, you'll let him be about it," Kurt met Blaine's gaze, "Is that all right by everyone?"

The women nodded reluctantly.

"No," Blaine said flatly. He glared around at the women, "Kurt can check."

Elizabeth looked toward Kurt, clearly stung she wasn't going to be permitted to help him, but she nodded anyway, "Fair enough."

Helen gave Kurt a pointed look but said nothing.

When they all remained standing around him, Blaine let out an irritated sigh, "I don't remember agreeing to an audience."

The women looked at him in mild surprise before shuffling out and leaving them alone.

 _Just the tumor._  Kurt tried to tell himself again and again, but his heart still stung. This was not Blaine; Blaine wasn't nasty and rude—he wouldn't ever hurt his mother that way, still, Kurt couldn't help himself from commenting, "They just love you, Blaine; they're well-intentioned."

"Their good intentions are about to make me throw myself off a cliff." Blaine grumbled.

Kurt sighed; the fight was pointless. He reached out and stroked his hand over Blaine's atop the icepack, "Can I see now?"

Blaine remained still for a moment before pulling the ice away.

Kurt took a step closer and smoothed his fingers over the angry bump already turning purple, "How hard did you hit your head?"

"Dunno," Blaine shrugged, "How do you measure head hitting hardness?"

"Scale of one to ten—one being patting someone on the head and ten being knocking yourself unconscious." Kurt brushed his fingers over the dark hair atop Blaine's head—it had thinned out a little, but it still covered almost everything save the scar.

"Who's doing the patting—you or Harry?"

Kurt looked down to meet Blaine's eyes. He was smiling, "Me."

"A four." Blaine tipped his head up to smile at Kurt.

"How's it feel now?" Kurt traced his thumb around the shell of Blaine's ear and touched a kiss to the wounded spot.

"Much better," When Kurt made to straighten up, Blaine grabbed him by the back of the neck and pulled him back in to press a kiss to his mouth.

Kurt felt an immediate lightness in his shoulders; like some part of the morning wasn't bearing down quite so hard with the sudden touch of Blaine's mouth to his. He lifted the ice pack from where Blaine had abandoned it on the kitchen table and pressed it back to Blaine's head, "You should tell your mother you love her."

"What for?" Blaine looked at him in surprise.

"She needs to hear it," Kurt offered Blaine a hand, but, as usual, Blaine ignored it and stood on his own.

"What I need is to prove to Natalie I'm not dead," Blaine looked at the Tupperware Kurt had dropped down on the kitchen table, "What's that?"

"Presents from Carol," Kurt pressed a quick kiss to Blaine's cheek, "That's from her, too. You've also been offered a free meal of your choosing in the Hudson-Hummel home front as soon as you're up to the drive over."

"Can we go tonight?" Blaine looked up from the Tupperware hopefully.

Kurt hesitated, "We could see what your mom thinks."

Blaine made a face at him, but his irritation was quickly overcome when he pulled the lid off the plastic container, "I still don't understand why she doesn't open up a bakery…or try to take over the world."

"Because she's only interested in ensuring Finn doesn't get too hungry and accidentally eat Rachel, making me fat, and spoiling you endlessly." Kurt shrugged.

Blaine stared down into the container for another minute before plucking three from the box and replacing the lid.

"Three?" Kurt raised an eyebrow, "I'm not judging; I'm actually very impressed."

Blaine dropped the Tupperware down on the island, "Sorry to crush your hopes, but only one's for me; the other two are for the girls."

Kurt followed after Blaine out of the kitchen but paused at the base of the stairs, "I'll meet you up there. I'm going to give your mom a detailed medical report on your head."

Blaine rolled his eyes, "I'll shout if I'm going to drop dead from hemorrhaging or something while you're gone."

Kurt shot him one last disapproving frown before wandering back to the family room where the women were seated.

Elizabeth was on her feet the second he was through the door, "Well?"

"He's fine; it's just a nasty bump," Kurt shrugged, "He's in a better mood now, too."

Elizabeth let out a relieved sigh, "He's been nasty like that off and on all day."

"How was he with the girls?" Kurt glanced over his shoulder, suddenly apprehensive about leaving Blaine alone to search out Natalie.

"Fine," a shadow of a smile crossed Elizabeth's face, "They were playing hide and seek. He was chasing after Natalie when he fell."

"He's upstairs looking for her right now with cookies for a peace offering," Kurt waved a hand in the direction of the kitchen, "Carol sent over a whole box of them."

"Bless her," Elizabeth sighed, "I really should send something home with you soon—she's always sending things over here."

"She loves to do it—she loves Blaine," Kurt shrugged. He glanced over his shoulder again to ensure Blaine was still out of earshot, "Speaking of Carol, Blaine was hoping he'd be able to come over soon."

Elizabeth tilted her head thoughtfully, "How soon?"

Kurt shifted his weight to his other foot, "Um… tonight actually."

Elizabeth bit her lip as she considered it.

"I think you still need to take him in to his doctor's office, Liz," Helen spoke carefully, "The fact that he fell at all is concerning."

"He didn't really fall; he tripped," Elizabeth looked between Kurt and her mother-in-law, "And I wouldn't be able to get him in any earlier than tomorrow."

"Do you really want him so far from home when there's even the chance that something might be wrong?" Helen's frown intensified.

Kurt couldn't help but think of Blaine's seizure in the parking lot; the lonely hours in the waiting room, "…She's right."

Helen and Elizabeth both looked at Kurt in surprise.

Kurt nodded slowly, "Maybe another day that's going a little more smoothly. We could leave earlier, too, so he wouldn't need to spend the night."

Helen's eyes widened at the mention of Blaine sleeping over even being a prospect, but she didn't comment on the matter.

Elizabeth looked relieved to have the decision made for her, "John could always drop him off, so you wouldn't be making two trips."

Kurt nodded half-heartedly, "Definitely… I'm going to go upstairs and find Blaine."

"Kurt, if he gets upset about not being able to come to Lima…" Elizabeth trailed off; looking guilty.

"He'll be fine," Kurt smiled reassuringly and made for the stairs before he could get pulled into another circle of conversation with the women. He paused on the steps to check his phone. He had a new e-mail. He ignored it and shoved it as deep into his back pocket as he could before jogging up to the landing. He followed the sound of Blaine's voice coming from his bedroom.

He was stretched out on the bed with a book resting on his knees. Natalie was snuggled beside him with her head on his shoulder. She looked up when Kurt entered, "Blaine's reading me a book."

Kurt crossed the room and peered down at the pages, "What book?"

"Love You Forever," Natalie pulled the book from Blaine's hands to show Kurt the cover.

"That was my mother's favorite book to read to me when I was little," Kurt looked over the glossy cover.

"Really?" Blaine's gaze went up to Kurt; he smiled, "That was my mom's favorite, too."

He nodded and settled onto the bed beside Natalie and changed the subject; he didn't want to talk about his mother today, "I take it everything got sorted out between you two, then?"

Natalie nodded and looked to Blaine for confirmation, "It was a big accident is all."

" _Silly_  accident," Blaine corrected.

"Can we keep reading?" Natalie put the book back down on Blaine's lap.

"Yeah, if you can remind me what page we were on," Blaine flipped idly past the first few pages.

"This one," Natalie pointed to the picture on the page she'd opened to.

"Right," Blaine sat up a little straighter on the bed, "The little boy grew. He grew and he grew and he grew. He grew until—"

"We read that part already, we're here," Natalie pointed a few lines down.

"Excuse me, Miss Smart Pants, why don't you just read it to me?" Blaine teased.

"Because I want you to read it. Keep going," Natalie nuzzled her head back into Blaine's shoulder.

"All right, all right," Blaine sighed and looked back to the book, "But at night time, when he was asleep—"

Natalie frowned up at Blaine when he fell mute, his gaze was focused on the page, "Blaine?"

"Um, I…" Blaine scanned the words again.

"—the mother quietly opened the door to his room, crawled across the floor and looked up over the side of the bed. If he was really asleep, she picked up that nine-year-old boy and rocked him back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. And while she rocked him she sang." Kurt didn't lean in any closer to see the page. He knew the words, "I'll love you forever, I'll like you for always, as long as I'm living, my baby you'll be."

Blaine threw him a grateful smile and shifted the book closer to Kurt as he turned the page.

"The boy grew, he grew and he grew and he grew…" Kurt continued on with the story and Natalie made no comment on the switch in her narrator.

She stayed cuddled against Blaine's arm and listened intently through the last page and sighed contentedly, "That's a nice book."

"Yes it is," Blaine finally broke his silence and pushed the book onto Natalie's lap, "I bet you could read the whole thing yourself."

Natalie's face lit up, "I'm going to go read it to Ava and my mom."

"I'm sure they'd love that," Blaine looked around as though worried about an audience before dropping his voice, "There's more cookies downstairs, too; I bet you could sneak another one before dinner tonight."

Natalie's eyes went wide. She scurried off the bed and out the door without another word.

"The love for Carol's baking must be genetic," Kurt mused; stretching out his back as he sat up higher on the bed.

"I think the love for her baking is universal," Blaine stared up at the slow rotation of the ceiling fan.

Kurt stood and shut the door before stretching himself back out on the bed. He folded his arms across Blaine's stomach and rested his chin atop them. As they lay quietly, Kurt's mind drifted to it's usual default setting: the mental checklist.

The daily walk, Blaine's chemo day on Thursday, the e-mail—no, wait, that could be checked off—calling Rachel, now a coffee date with Quinn could be added to the list; sitting his father down for a talk…

"Are you okay?" Blaine's hand brushed through his hair.

Kurt roused himself from his mental planning, "Hm?"

"You seem upset," Blaine frowned at him.

"In what way?" Kurt tried to recall anything he could have done to let on about his mood. He'd been careful to seem cheerful.

Blaine looked momentarily hurt, "I can still tell when you're hurting, Kurt. I'm not that far gone."

Kurt caught Blaine's hand resting on his neck in his own, "I wasn't trying to imply you were. I just don't know why you'd think I was upset about something. I'm in a perfectly decent mood today."

"I thought maybe it was because I've been so awful today," Blaine shrugged.

Kurt studied him quietly, "I didn't know you knew when you were in those sorts of moods."

"I…" Blaine looked toward the line of prescription bottles on his desk, "I don't really… but I can see it on everyone's faces when I've hurt them."

"You didn't hurt me," Kurt touched a kiss to Blaine's hand still folded in his.

"You always just look so… _relieved_  though. Like me being civil toward you is the greatest thing you've ever experienced," Blaine's eyes moved back to his.

"I do enjoy when you're nice to me," Kurt teased and squeezed Blaine's hand tighter.

"You shouldn't have to be excited just because I'm acting human," Blaine looked away again, "If that's the standard for how your boyfriend is supposed to treat you, then you might as well be dating Karofsky. You deserve better than this."

"Hey, look at me," Kurt pulled at Blaine's shoulders until he was sitting up too.

Blaine met his gaze reluctantly.

"My standard for my boyfriend is part of a package deal where we need to be the most loyal, supportive, and loving people we can be for one another," Kurt folded both of Blaine's hands between his, "and part of that deal is us taking care of each other when things aren't at their best. You're still you and I'm still me; I can take a few road bumps in all this if you can."

Blaine tilted his head forward until his forehead was touching Kurt's, "How'd I end up with someone as amazing as you?"

"I came for the tacky blazer and stayed for the coffee dates," Kurt smiled, "The kissing doesn't hurt the cause either."

"What about the lack of sex?" Blaine's eyes were so close they were just a blur of warm honey in Kurt's vision, "Has that been a deterrent yet in all this?"

"It's cramping my style a bit, but I can handle it for now." Kurt smiled weakly.

Blaine was quiet for another minute, "…what is it then?"

"What's what?"

"The thing that's bothering you; what is it?" Blaine sat up straighter to study Kurt's face.

Kurt hesitated for the briefest of moments, but recovered quickly; there was no way he could tell him. Not yet; not today, "It's nothing. Really."

Blaine studied him again, his mouth turning down into a frown, "You're lying to me."

"Oh, honestly, Blaine, stop," Kurt rolled his eyes and shifted around until he was sitting behind Blaine. He rubbed his shoulders lightly, "You're being paranoid."

"I am not," Blaine turned his head to frown at Kurt, but he made no move to get away from the contact, "And you're rubbing my back in an attempt to distract me."

"I am rubbing your back in an attempt to seduce you because you mentioned sex," Kurt teased.

Blaine's attention was snagged for a moment, "You want to have sex with my entire family in the house?"

Kurt laughed quietly, "No. Knowing our luck, Harry would walk in when I was mid-orgasm. I just want to be horribly self-indulgent and feel you."

"Not much to feel these days," Blaine studied his arm with a wrinkled nose.

"We'll fatten you back up in no time," Kurt rubbed his thumbs down to the base of Blaine's spine and wrapped his arms around his middle to run his fingers over his stomach, "I'm going to spoil you rotten."

Blaine traced his fingers over Kurt's forearms, "You already do."

"This is nothing compared to what we're going to do when you're doing a little better," Kurt rested his chin on Blaine's shoulder, "We're going to run away to the beach and get a hotel room and do nothing but eat ridiculously good food, drink expensive wine, and endlessly make love."

Blaine lifted his hand to Kurt's chin and turned his face until their lips were nearly touching, "Lets just go now."

"We'll run away tonight." Kurt murmured before the heat of Blaine's mouth so close was too much.

Blaine twisted around to face him; one hand on his face and the other against his chest, pushing at him to lie down.

Blaine rocked his hips down and Kurt moaned into his mouth—it had been far too long since he'd felt the weight of Blaine's body pressing down on his own; the hot slide of sweat soaked skin on skin; he pressed back against the contact.

"I love this thing on you," Blaine murmured between kisses; his fingers tracing the neckline of Kurt's shirt.

Kurt smiled against Blaine's mouth, "I wondered how long it would take you to notice I was wearing it."

"Mm, I think I'd like it even better off," Blaine turned his mouth down to Kurt's neck; sucking at his throat; tugging the neckline of his undershirt lower to access his collarbone.

"Blaine," Kurt breathed out his name and tilted his chin back farther to give Blaine even more access to his neck. He shouldn't feel this turned on from just making out; his breath shouldn't be catching just because Blaine had managed to undo the buttons of his vest. He moved a hand to the back of Blaine's head and was momentarily confused when there were no dark curls for him to tangle his fingers in.

Blaine paused in his kisses; his steadier hand held the hem of Kurt's shirt, but it, too, remained suspended. He knew what Kurt's fingers had been searching for. Slowly, he uncurled his hand from Kurt's shirt and sat back on Kurt's lap.

"Blaine…" Kurt felt his cheeks flushing red at the notion of having upset Blaine, "What's wrong?"

"Is this… " Blaine bit his lip, "is this okay for you?"

"Can you feel what you're sitting on right now?" Kurt reached up to grip Blaine's hips, "It's more than okay."

Blaine smiled a little, but his eyes didn't meet Kurt's, "I know I'm not exactly in top form right now—what with the Auschwitz-esque physique and lack of hair, but—"

"But nothing. You're gorgeous, and even if you can't form all of your words all the time, your mouth has never been better," Kurt rubbed his thumbs over the line of Blaine's pelvis.

Blaine met his gaze, "Really?"

"You are sitting on hard evidence," Kurt cringed when Blaine raised his eyebrows, "No pun intended."

Blaine smiled a little, "Are you sure that's not just from lack of a sexual outlet for like a month?"

"For the sake of my dignity and not wanting to seem naturally overeager, I'm going to say that might be playing a small factor," Kurt laughed quietly and blushed.

"Feels pretty big to me," Blaine rotated his hips once, grinding down on the bulge already aching in Kurt's pants.

"Oh my God, don't tease." Kurt moaned and pulled at Blaine's shirt in an effort to get his mouth closer to his own.

Blaine stretched back out on top of him, making a point of rubbing his body down Kurt's with unbearable friction until his mouth was right beside his ear, tickling his skin with hot, humid breath, "Is it still constituted as teasing if I follow through?"

Kurt had only a momentary fear of hurting Blaine when he crashed his mouth back against his, but then Blaine's nails were biting into the skin of his side and all coherent thought was gone. He pulled Blaine's shirt over his head quickly and rubbed his fingers down his back; into the hem of his pants and around to the front; he undid the button with one quick movement and pressed his hand down farther beneath the elastic band of his underwear—

"Blaine! There's someone at the door for you!"

Kurt startled at the sound of Elaine's voice so close to the door. He rolled Blaine off of him easily, "Blaine."

"Hmm?" Blaine blinked at him from where he now lay at Kurt's side. His cheeks were flushed and his chest rose and fell noticeably as he caught his breath.

"Apparently you have a visitor," Kurt worked at buttoning his vest as quickly as he could, suddenly paranoid of someone walking in. He was grateful for the length of his vest or else he would have never been able to leave Blaine's room.

Blaine sat up on the bed cross-legged and smiled at Kurt as he watched him frantically try to pull himself back into some semblance of order, "Hey, Kurt?"

"Blaine, go downstairs and see who's here, if your grandma comes up here and sees a closed door and—"

"Like you for always."

Kurt paused in his flurry of movement. Blaine smiled back at him blithely. Kurt crawled back onto the bed and pressed a quiet kiss to his mouth, "Love you forever."

They smiled at one another and said nothing for a long moment.

"Blaine! Door!" Elaine called again.

"We'd better get down there," Blaine made a face and gave Kurt one more quick kiss before pulling his shirt back over his head and moving to the door, "Coming?"

Kurt followed after him down the stairs, ignoring Helen's suspicious glare as they made their way to the front door.

Blaine stopped abruptly, when he saw who was leaning against the doorframe.

The first thing Kurt noticed were the boy's eyes—so piercingly green as to almost look artificial beneath long auburn hair. The second thing he noticed was the distinct smell of cigarette smoke seeping off of his leather jacket.

The boy didn't straighten up as they approached. He looked Blaine over slowly, his expression momentarily distraught, but when his eyes met Blaine's, he just frowned, "Fuck, Anderson, I didn't want to believe it was true."

"Yeah, well," Blaine shrugged.

Kurt was momentarily hung up on the fact that this guy with the leather jacket and the green eyes was also in possesion of a vaguely English sounding accent.

"And after all that shit you gave me about frying my brain," The boy smirked and shook his head.

Kurt momentarily forgot the accent and the eyes in favor of feeling suddenly defensive. He took a step closer to Blaine.

The boy noticed him then and, despite Kurt's irritation, he blushed under those eyes being so entirely on him, "Well, well, well; look what we have here. You must be Kurt. You're much prettier in person than that picture Blaine carries around of you."

Kurt straightened up and folded his arms across his chest; he gave the boy a once over and his best judgmental bitch face, "And you are…."

"The guy noticing you buttoned your vest-dress thing wrong," The boy nodded toward Kurt's chest with a smirk before turning his gaze back to Blaine, "Afternoon delight with the entire family home, Blaine? Your brain really is fucked right now, isn't it?"

Kurt was fumbling to fix his shirt and feeling nothing but seething hatred for the gorgeous stranger in the doorway, but Blaine was laughing, "Not too fucked to forget how a proper introduction works. Kurt, this is Trip Morgan."


	16. Chapter 14

Trip nodded absently toward Kurt. If Kurt had known it would be the most civil thing Trip would do for the entirety of his visit, he might have appreciated the gesture a little more. Instead he raised and dropped his eyebrows in his own half-hearted attempt at a greeting.

"Are you gonna let me in or what?" Trip stuffed his hands in his pockets as his eyes moved back to Blaine, "And wipe that stupid grin off your face, you smug bastard."

Blaine stepped aside quickly, still grinning blissfully, "I was beginning to think you weren't coming to Ohio anymore."

"Yeah, well, mommy was gonna ship me off somewhere no matter what, so here I am," Trip stepped into the house and kicked the door shut with the heel of a too well-worn red Converse, "Here, I brought you something."

Trip pulled his hand out of his pocket and tossed something to Blaine. Blaine missed it entirely and stared down at it on the ground curiously, "What's this?"

"It's a fucking puppy," Trip rolled his eyes, "What's it look like?"

Blaine stooped down and picked up the little pink package. Bubblegum. Another smile spread out across his face, "You remembered."

"You smelled like that shit the entire time you were in Weston," Trip cracked his knuckles idly; eyeing the foyer, "Made it kind of hard to forget."

Blaine chuckled, "Thank you."

Trip's eyes shifted to Kurt, a grin playing across his mouth again so that Kurt couldn't take his eyes off the lip ring on the right side of his mouth; it gleamed silver as he spoke, "Blaine loves bubblegum."

"I'm aware," Kurt scanned Trip again. His hair, though a pretty color, was too long; his jacket was faded and in almost as bad of condition as his shoes, and his jeans—well, okay, tight dark denim was a good look on him, but Kurt decided it best to ignore that little detail; he didn't need anything else about Trip Morgan to fluster him with those eyes turning his cheeks red with every glance.

Trip's gaze lingered on Kurt a moment longer and then he looked back to Blaine, "I had to make a stop just to get that shit for you, Anderson."

"You sure the trip wasn't just for a pack of cigarettes and gum happens to be housed at the counter, too?" Blaine quirked an eyebrow and then added, "Watch your language; there are little girls in the house."

"Oh, I think Kurt's heard a foul word or two before," Trip winked at Kurt.

"Play nice," Blaine elbowed Trip lightly.

"I don't know what you're talking about, I'm being nothing but friendly."

"I'd hate to meet you on a day you were feeling less than civil," Kurt rested a hand on his hip and fixed Trip with another look. He decided he didn't like boys with pretty eyes and lip rings who gave gum to his boyfriend.

"Maybe some other time," Trip winked again. Why did he have to keep fucking winking?

Blaine glanced toward the family room where they could hear women's voices filtering from, but then glanced back toward the stairs, "My room?"

"Who said I was staying?"

"Me," Blaine gave Trip a light shove in the back toward the steps, "and I have cancer, so it's best to try and accommodate me."

"I'd offer to punch your little self-pitying cancer patient face in for trying to tell me what to do, but it looks like someone already beat me to it." Trip turned to eye Blaine's forehead as they reached the landing at the top of the stairs.

"Yeah, the coffee table," Blaine touched his fingers tenderly to the spot with a sheepish smile.

Trip snorted, "Dancing?"

"Hide and seek," Blaine corrected. He settled down on top of the mussed comforter and when Kurt sat down beside him, he brushed his thumb over the top of his hand almost imperceptibly.

Though small, Trip noted the gesture immediately; his eyes flitted from their hands to their faces, "Did you bring me up here for a threesome?"

Kurt flushed red, "Oh my God."

"In your dreams, Morgan," Blaine rolled his eyes.

"Most likely," Trip plopped down in Blaine's desk chair and propped his feet on the edge of the bed. He looked around the room thoughtfully.

"When'd you get to Ohio?" Blaine prompted.

"A couple weeks ago. School wasn't out until the start of June out my way," Trip was still taking in the room; his eyes moving from the closet to the dresser to the desk, "but now here I am."

"Here you are," Blaine shook his head and smiled to himself. Kurt knew that smile. It was Blaine's I'm-so-fucking-pleased-with-myself smile.

"So when'd your whole life get turned ass up?" Trip motioned a hand to the scattering of prescription bottles.

"Graduation," Blaine met Kurt's eyes questioningly, "Like…a month ago?"

Kurt nodded his head. It had been forty-one days exactly—he'd marked his calendar—but he didn't share that with them.

Trip's gaze drifted down to Blaine's hand in his lap; he nodded toward it, "Is that from it too, or are you just suddenly weirdly twitchy?"

Normally, any attention to his hand had Blaine immediately tucking it away—folded under his arm; buried in his pocket; burrowed in his lap under the table—anywhere it could remain unseen. Kurt was surprised when Blaine held out his hand for Trip to inspect even closer, "No, it's a cancer thing. The doctor doesn't know why it won't stop."

Kurt was surprised again when Trip dropped his feet down to the floor and scooted forward to take Blaine's wrist almost tenderly in a gentle hold. He turned his hand from side to side; studying it grimly, "Doctors never know shit."

"Lets hope that's not the case," Kurt touched a hand to Blaine's leg, and Blaine gave him an almost reassuring smile.

"We'll see I guess," Trip let go of Blaine's hand and moved his feet back up to the edge of the bed. Kurt wrinkled his nose at the dirty undersides of his shoes so near his knee.

"How've you been, Trip?" Blaine spoke gently as he tucked his hand back into his lap.

"I'm all in one piece and I'm here, aren't I?" Trip motioned a hand down the length of his body.

"The lip thing is new," Blaine nodded toward Trip's mouth.

"Is not." Trip gave him a concerned frown.

"Don't try to fuck with me just because I have a brain tumor. My long term memory has been fine." Blaine made a face at him.

Trip laughed, "All right, yeah, it's new. What are you, my dad? What's it to you?"

"Dalton won't like it."

"Dalton can kiss my ass."

"No Dalton means no Warblers," Blaine smiled a little, "And you can pretend to be as much of an asshole as you want, but I  _know_  you want the Warblers."

"The Warblers want  _me_ ," Trip snapped back.

"The Warblers have never even heard you sing," Kurt said coolly, but then he regretted speaking because Trip's eyes were back on his, and he could feel his cheeks turning hot.

Blaine noted the coloring in Kurt's cheeks with a grin, "Don't stare at him like that, Trip. He's got a thing for nice eyes and yours are unnerving him."

"Blaine!" Kurt snapped his head up to look at Blaine with mortification, "Filter!"

"Sorry," Blaine shrugged, apparently not feeling all that remorseful.

Trip tilted his head, his gaze still fully on Kurt, "I'll add eye fucking to my list Things to do with Blaine's Boyfriend list."

"Don't even think about it," Blaine scooted in closer to Kurt until their sides were touching.

"How exactly did you two meet again?" Kurt snapped, still trying to avoid meeting Trip's gaze.

"Elaine knows his mom from like yoga class or book club or something…" Blaine looked to Trip for confirmation.

"Church," Trip corrected, "They probably do other shit together too, but church is where they do their big talking. Two dollar fundraiser donuts and lukewarm coffee after mass are apparently the grounds for some very stimulating conversation."

Blaine nodded and continued, "Sometime last summer they had a chat about Dalton being a good school and me going to Dalton, and then they introduced us when I went out East for winter break."

Trip inspected his fingernails idly, "During which time we braided each other's hair and gossiped about boys and glitter and rainbows and had sleepovers every single night."

"That pretty much covers it," Blaine shrugged.

"Why Dalton, Trip?" Kurt looked him over, "It doesn't exactly seem like your ideal choice in school."

Trip folded his arms across his chest and fixed his eyes on Kurt's, "And what exactly do you know about me, Hummel, that makes you think you can deduce what kind of school I might like to attend?"

"Just a gut feeling," Kurt broke eye contact and turned his attention to Trip's shoes again. There was a hole forming in the canvas of the left one near the toe.

"The Warblers," Blaine answered for him, his gaze steady on Trip's face, "He wants to sing."

Trip grunted in response, but he didn't deny the claim. He turned his gaze to the nightstand and lifted a book and a stack of pamphlets Kurt hadn't noticed from atop the usual pile of old magazines. Trip quirked an eyebrow and fanned out the papers for Blaine to see, "A little light reading, Blaine?"

Blaine laughed and rolled his eyes, "My grandma's been surreptitiously dropping off things in my room since Sunday."

Kurt leaned forward and plucked one of the leaflets gingerly from Trip's hand, "Homosexuals Anonymous?"

"Homosexuals Anonymous," Blaine nodded gravely, "I'm through step one."

Kurt frowned as he turned the thing over in his hands. He found the list of steps and skimmed through them, "You've admitted you're powerless to your homosexual desires and that your feelings are unmanageable?"

"It's true," Blaine sighed, "All I want is gay sex. Lots and lots of gay sex."

Kurt clamped a hand over his mouth when a giggle escaped his lips. He glanced in Trip's direction, dreading his reaction. Trip, much to Kurt's relief, was still engrossed with a brochure spread out across his knees, "This is a camp for gay kids to 'recover'. They actually have those."

"So I've read," Blaine stretched out across the bed and tucked his pillow under his head. He smiled sleepily at Kurt, "Wanna go to gay camp with me? Roast marshmallows? Go hiking? Pitch tents?"

"The only tents those kids are pitching are in their pants," Trip turned the pamphlet for them to see and pointed to a picture, "I bet they just secretly gang bang each other every fucking night."

"Can we not joke about this? It's not funny," Kurt folded up the paper on his lap and dropped it in the trashcan beside the bed, "It's terrible."

Trip ignored him and rapped his knuckles across the larger book in the stack, " _Desires In Conflict_. Sounds like a great read. Real page turner I bet."

"Kurt's right, Trip," Blaine rubbed his eyes, "Don't joke."

"Do your parents know she's leaving you all this stuff?" Kurt scowled at Trip when he held out the book toward him.

"No," Blaine tucked his hand behind his head.

"Couldn't you just have a little tumor slip up and say something?" Trip dropped the book into the trash with Kurt's pamphlet. When he spoke again, his voice sounded uncannily like Blaine's, "Could someone pass the salt and oh by the way, Mom, Grandma's got a hidden agenda to turn me straight before she flies back home?"

Blaine let out a breathy laugh, "She's not trying to be cruel. She really thinks she's being helpful."

Trip snorted and fished a hand into his pocket. When he pulled it back out, he had a pack of cigarettes caught between his fingers.

"Nuh-uh, not in here," Blaine sat up quickly, "My mom will have you shot on the spot."

"Not to mention the fact that those things will completely mess with your singing," Kurt wrinkled his nose at the cigarette already stuck in Trip's mouth.

"Jesus Christ, you two are exhausting." Trip dropped his feet to the floor with a thump and pushed himself out of the chair, "You're almost completely impossible to get along with."

"And you're  _so_  amiable," Blaine rolled his eyes and motioned a hand toward the door, "Take it outside, and don't let my mom or Elaine see you. They'll throw a fit."

Trip saluted them and disappeared out the door, his shoes making every step creak as he jogged down toward the entryway.

As soon as he heard the front door slam shut, Kurt turned this attention to Blaine, "Okay, Blaine, I know you can be a little oblivious and I know you're a social person, but you have  _got_ to be kidding me."

Blaine laughed and groaned almost simultaneously, "I knew you two would clash."

" _Blaine_ ," Kurt snapped.

"What?" Blaine was still smiling innocently but then he sighed, "All right, I'll admit that Trip can be a little abrasive."

"A little?" Kurt gave Blaine a withering look.

"Okay, he can be a lot abrasive, but he's a good guy under all that," Blaine looked at the empty desk chair almost fondly.

"In the twenty minutes he's been here he's called me a girl, suggested we sleep with him, tried to smoke in your house, and his expletives outnumber his regular vocab use about three to one," Kurt checked the knee of his pants to ensure Trip's grimy shoe hadn't somehow left a mark he could have missed earlier, "Not every stray you find is looking for someone to fix them, Blaine."

"I'm not trying to fix him; I'm just trying to be his friend. He needs friends," Blaine nodded assuredly to himself, "He's had a rough time, Kurt, he's just…guarded."

"He seems pretty open to me." Kurt grumbled.

"It's an act. You and I of all people should be able to understand what it is to put up a mask when the world gets scary," Blaine reached toward Kurt and secured his hand in his, "Just give him a chance. For me."

Kurt met Blaine's hopeful gaze and sighed, "Fine. For you."

Blaine leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, "Thank you."

"So what's his deal then?" Kurt scooted closer to Blaine and rested his head on his shoulder.

"If you put in a little effort with him, he'll tell you himself," Blaine traced his fingers down Kurt's back, "But it's not my place to be spilling his personal stuff all over."

"I hate when you're a good person," Kurt muttered but then sighed contentedly at the feel of Blaine's hand rubbing slowly down his back.

"Christ, you're tense," Blaine shifted himself behind Kurt and used both his hands on either side of his spine to work at the knotted muscles between his shoulder blades.

Kurt hissed at the aching spasms of his muscles as Blaine worked the knots free, but it felt so wonderful at the same time he could have moaned for pleasure, "Mm."

Blaine worked quietly for a few more minutes, "You've been stressed."

"I'm fine," Kurt groaned when a particularly awful spot ached so deeply beneath Blaine's hand it almost made his stomach hurt.

"Kurt," Blaine's hands paused, "We spend so much time talking about me… we never talk about you anymore."

"Nothing to say about me," Kurt pressed back against Blaine's hands in hopes it might prompt him to keep rubbing his aching muscles.

Blaine took the hint and pressed the heel of his hand into Kurt's back, but he wasn't done talking, "You  _love_  to talk about you."

"That doesn't make me sound conceited at all," Kurt rolled his eyes.

"It's not a bad thing," Blaine dragged his hand down Kurt's back slowly, "I like talking about you, too, so why don't we anymore?"

Kurt found himself looking at the door hoping for Trip to return, when he didn't, he knew he'd have to answer, "…We're together all the time, Blaine, your world is my world right now; you see everything that goes on with me."

Blaine had reached the small of Kurt's back. He moved his hands back to his shoulders and rubbed up to his neck; his fingers threading into the short hairs on the back of his head, "You really expect me to buy that?"

"What do you suppose I'm doing between like seven and nine in the morning when we're not together?" Kurt felt Blaine's fingers press higher into his hair—a move that in the past would have sent him into a tantrum over having the perfect styling ruined, but Blaine had taken a liking to touching Kurt's hair; tracing a thumb over the line of it just above his ear; weaving his fingers into it when Kurt snuggled close—he allowed the intrusion patiently.

"You are an entire ocean of secrets in that head of yours," Blaine's hands slipped from his hair to rub down his biceps.

"Makes me sort of sexy mysterious, doesn't it?" Kurt closed his eyes; his whole body felt half-melted and he longed to be back in the positions they'd been in earlier—Blaine's nails pressing into the skin of his back and his own hand down Blaine's pants; mouths locked together with no hope for all these words and all these conversations he didn't want to have to partake in ever escaping their lips.

Blaine laughed quietly somewhere near his ear; wrapped his arms around Kurt's middle, "You'd be just as sexy without the mysterious aspect."

"I've told you like ten thousand times today that there's nothing bothering me, so stop worrying," Kurt leaned back into Blaine's chest, "It's bad for your health."

"And it's good for yours to drop your entire life to play my bedside nurse?"

"I like playing nurse with you," Kurt smiled and then added for good measure, "And I didn't drop my life. I have a coffee date with Quinn soon."

Blaine sighed, "Kurt—"

The sound of the front door slamming shut again brought both of their attention back to Blaine's bedroom door. A minute later, Trip reappeared; he surveyed them from the doorway mildly, "Am I interrupting something?"

Blaine squeezed his arms around Kurt one more time before sliding away from him, "No, we're good."

When Trip walked further into the room, the smell of smoke seeped from his body, sharper and brighter than before—Kurt could practically see tendrils of it weaving out of his shirt; his hair.

"Nasty habit, Trip," Blaine flexed his hand out once; twice, "You really should quit. They won't let you do that at Dal—"

"You aren't making Dalton sound nearly as appealing as you did back in Maryland." Trip cut him off impatiently.

"It's a good school and they'll be good to you if you stay in line," Blaine shrugged.

"Because staying in line has always come so naturally to me," Trip smiled; amused with himself, "You were a happy little blazer-donning songbird once too, weren't you, Kurt?"

"Yes, for awhile," For the sake of a reach toward friendliness he added, "It's where I met Blaine."

"Aw gee, was it love at first sight?" Trip batted his eyelashes and clasped his hands by his face.

 _You told Blaine you'd try._  Kurt gritted his teeth for a moment before answering, "Not exactly."

"It took me awhile to get my head out of my ass," Blaine nudged Kurt with his knee and smiled.

Trip made a gagging sound, "Spare me the happily ever after bullshit, please."

Blaine turned an amused smile to Kurt, "Trip doesn't believe in love."

"A jaded teenager who thinks love doesn't exist," Kurt couldn't help but roll his eyes, "How original."

"And you: the gay, perfectly groomed, ever-fashionable sassy diva," Trip eyed Kurt disdainfully, "I might be unoriginal, but you, friend, are just a downright cliché. And Blaine, don't even get me started on you and your goddamn optimism."

"Sorry for being happy," Blaine smiled thoughtfully, "Who knows, Trip, maybe you'll meet someone at Dalton who'll turn you all heels over head."

"I doubt that," Trip pulled a lighter from his pocket. The little flame appeared at the top then disappeared again as he slid his thumb over the button, "And the expression is 'head over heels', idiot."

Blaine ignored the insult, "There's some good people here, Trip; I told you that before."

A quick look of irritation passed over Trip's face, but then, just as quickly, he was smirking, "People like you?"

"Maybe not that great," Blaine winked at Kurt, "But I bet if you—"

Trip frowned at Blaine and lowered the lighter into his lap, "If I what?"

"Uh…" Blaine closed his eyes as he thought.

"Take your time," Kurt advised gently when he noted Blaine's hands curling into tight fists in his lap.

"This is like the tenth fucking time today." Blaine snapped; scrunching his eyes shut even tighter.

"You've only had an issue once since I got here."

"Yeah, well you haven't been here all that long, have you?" Blaine snapped. He let out an irritated sigh and opened his eyes, "I don't remember what I was even saying."

"You were encouraging me to spread my little wings and meet new people," Trip was watching him with something akin to wonder.

Blaine nodded but didn't say anything else.

Trip crossed his legs in his chair and studied Blaine curiously, "That happens a lot? You just forget what you're saying?"

Blaine jerked his head down once. Yes it happened a lot.

"He doesn't forget what he's saying," Kurt corrected; he wondered if it would be all right for him to hold Blaine's hand or if it would be greeted with hostility. He decided he didn't want to risk it, "It's like he has the word in his head but it won't connect to his mouth."

"I forget sometimes, too." Blaine sighed, sounding more resigned than irritated now.

Kurt frowned at him, "But I thought after graduation you said—"

"That was just that song, and most of the time it is just a connection problem," Blaine pulled the little yellow ball off his bedside table and worked it slowly between his fingers, "If I have something big I want to say, I forget what I was trying to get at sometimes."

Kurt remembered then. Walks around the block when Blaine told long rambling stories with seemingly no point to them; moments when he ended anecdotes with a lame shrug and a half-mumbled closer. It all made sense, "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I thought you'd just sort of pick up on it," Blaine shrugged and glanced up from his ball, "You didn't?"

Kurt shook his head, "No."

"Well, then the speech therapist is doing something right," Blaine squeezed his fingers tight around the ball and then loosened them again.

"So is this tumor thing still just eating away at your head then?" Trip eyed the scar across Blaine's head warily.

"No," Blaine was pressing his thumb and index finger into the ball now; lifting it and dropping it into his other opened hand, "I mean it  _is_  still there, but a bunch of this mess is from the surgery."

"I guess getting chunks hacked out of your brain kinda does that, huh?" a ghost of a smile traced over Trip's mouth and, if Kurt was being honest, he looked almost likeable like that…and if he was being  _really_ honest, he was kind of completely gorgeous with that little smile. But no, Kurt wasn't feeling that totally honest; he made a face to himself and tore his eyes away.

Blaine smiled a little too, but his attention was still on the ball, now sitting on his open palm, "Guess so."

Trip was quiet for a while, but then, without warning, he reached forward and snatched the ball from Blaine's hand, "You any better at catching this than that pack of gum?"

"My 'sense of self in space' is off," Blaine watched the spasm in his hand thoughtfully.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Trip tossed the ball in the air and caught it once.

"It means I walk into doorframes, and I can't catch." Blaine gave Trip a scolding frown when he bluffed whipping the ball at Kurt, "But I'm working on it."

"What do you say we take this thing and practice your sense of self in space outside?" Trip held the ball out in front of Blaine only to snatch it away just as he made a grab for it, "I can't stand being in your house anymore. It smells like homophobia and cancer."

Blaine laughed outright, and, though Kurt found Trip offensive in every way possible, Blaine's laugh made him smile, too.

"Is that a yes?" Trip mimed whipping the ball at Kurt's face again.

"Cut it out," Kurt shoved Trip's hand away as he climbed off the bed, Blaine right behind him.

Elaine and Elizabeth were in the foyer with the baby toddling in front of them when they made it to ground level. Elaine studied Trip almost pityingly before shifting her attention to the other two boys, "Where are you off to?"

"Taking Blaine out to play fetch," Trip waved the ball in the air for them to see.

Elizabeth frowned at Trip for a moment before looking to Blaine, "Are you going to get cold without a jacket?"

"It's like eighty degrees out, Mom." Blaine looked to the window above the door where the sun was streaming in.

She didn't seem to hear him; her gaze was focused on the bruise on his forehead. She stepped closer to him; traced her fingers over the spot, "How's your head?"

"It's fine," Blaine laced his fingers around hers and gently pulled her hand away, "Really."

"I scheduled an appointment for you tomorrow… just in case." Elizabeth watched him warily as though she feared an outburst.

"'kay." Blaine shrugged.

A look of relief washed over Elizabeth's face. She touched a kiss to Blaine's forehead, "Go on and go outside then."

Once the door closed behind them, Trip chuckled, "Your mom has some serious Guilty Parent Syndrome going on right now."

"She's doing her best," Blaine gave him a look that Kurt read immediately.  _Do not joke about my mother._

Trip raised his hands in a quick 'I surrender' gesture and said nothing more on the subject.

Blaine flopped down in the grass the second they were in the yard and tipped his face up toward the sun, "I love summer."

"You said the same thing about winter in Maryland." Trip tugged his jacket off and tossed it up onto the porch railing.

"And you say the same thing about spring and fall," Kurt added.

"I'm Blaine and I love all of the seasons," Trip grinned blithely at the sun and threw his arms out, "In fact, I just love fucking everything—the sun and the grass—isn't this grass nice?—and that gutter over there and the clouds—oh my god the motherfucking clouds are fantastic, aren't they? And—"

Kurt couldn't stop the laugh that bubbled up in his throat. He didn't even try to cover it.

"Oh that's real nice," Blaine rolled his eyes and motioned a hand between Kurt and Trip, "The first time you two get along has to be at my expense. That's lovely."

Kurt sank down to his knees beside Blaine, careful not to get grass stains on his pants, "I love that you love everything so much. You're passionate, and it's charming."

"I think it's obnoxious." Trip chimed.

Kurt rolled his eyes. So much for them getting along.

"Are we gonna play or what?" Trip brushed the hair off his forehead and made a face toward the sun as though he blamed it for intentionally making him too hot.

Blaine pushed himself upright and Kurt was about to do the same when his phone went off. He pulled it from his pocket and glanced at the screen before answering, "Hey, Rachel."

"Tell her I say hi and I want her to come visit," Blaine prodded Kurt in the side to ensure his message would be delivered.

Kurt pushed his hand away, "Blaine says hi and he wants you to come visit."

"Tell him I say hi back, and I'll come with you soon to see him," Rachel's voice was quiet. Rachel was never quiet.

"She says hello and she wants to see you," Kurt murmured to Blaine.

Blaine nodded and turned his attention back to Trip who had thrown the ball at the side of his head while they talked. He whipped it back in his direction but missed him by a good foot.

"What's going on, Rachel?" Kurt stepped out of the way when the ball came careening back his direction. He kicked it lightly toward Blaine as he stepped out of the grass and onto the driveway.

"When were you planning on telling me?" Her voice was sad.

"Telling you what?" Kurt asked; confused. Finn hadn't cheated on her as far as he knew, and no one had been spreading any nasty sort of rumors that he was aware of…

She was quiet for a long minute, "You shouldn't keep yourself permanently logged into your email. You never know who might see it."

Kurt felt his stomach drop. He glanced toward where Blaine and Trip were now occupying themselves more with inflicting the most possible harm by hitting the other with the ball than with actually trying to catch it. He slipped around the other side of the house and remained silent until he was sure he was out of earshot, "Why were you on my computer?"

"I needed to check  _my_ e-mail to see if school sent me any messages," She sniffled; great, she was crying, "Kurt, that internship was everything you ever wanted."

"Well sometimes we can't have everything we want, can we?" Kurt leaned back against the cool brick of the house.

"Does Blaine know?" Rachel asked softly.

"He doesn't even know yet that his parents aren't going to let  _him_ go," Kurt closed his eyes, "No one knows."

"When were you planning on telling us? Telling  _me_?" She sniffled again; there was no anger in her voice; just a sad note of rejection, "We're supposed to be roommates, Kurt."

"I know, I know," Kurt pinched the bridge of his nose, "And I'm working on figuring that out, Rachel; I wasn't going to just let you fall on your face when you got out there. I promise, I'll get it all worked out—"

"I know you wouldn't do that to me," He wished she would just yell at him; call him out for destroying all of their plans; for potentially scuffing her dreams, but she didn't. "I'm worried about  _you,_ Kurt."

"No, no, I've got this under control," Kurt nodded before he remembered she couldn't actually see him, "I do. It's just messy right now. Give me two weeks to—"

"Kurt, I told your dad." She sounded almost repentant.

Kurt let out a groan, "Rachel."

"He needed to know, Kurt," She said; more assured now, "He's your dad."

Kurt resisted the urge to drag a hand through his hair and settled for closing his eyes tightly. He needed to find his center; if one thing slipped out of his control, everything would topple over with it. He let out a long breath, "… okay. Fine; whatever. I'll…. I'll talk to him as soon as I can."

"I'd recommend sooner rather than later, he's, um," Rachel swallowed, "He's kind of upset."

 _You are so lucky you're two hours away from me because otherwise I swear to God I'd shake you._ Kurt gritted his teeth, "I'll leave Blaine's in a couple hours."

"I'm really sorry, Kurt." She sounded sad again; small.

"Yeah," Kurt sighed, "…me too."

He hung up, but didn't go immediately back to the front yard. He took a moment to straighten his vest; close his eyes. Finally, he took in a deep breath and let it out as he fixed a smile on his face and went back around the house.

When Kurt reached the front lawn, Trip was sitting in the grass with his weight on his hands behind him; Blaine lay splayed out beside him.

"Lost interest in trying to inflict bodily harm upon one another?" Kurt raised an eyebrow as he stared down at the other two.

"Got boring," Blaine patted the grass beside him until Kurt sat down.

"What he means is his mom came out here and told me to stop pummeling him with the ball," Trip kicked his foot once against Blaine's, "He didn't hit me once."

Blaine made a face at Trip before turning his gaze back to Kurt, "What's up with Rachel?"

"Nothing really; her usual drama," Kurt shrugged, "I'm going to have to leave a little early today though to go deal with some stuff."

Blaine pouted, "No dinner at the Hudson-Hummel house for us?"

"Not tonight," Kurt smiled apologetically; he opted not to mention that Elizabeth had already negated their dinner plans, "Soon though."

They fell quiet and listened to the sounds of the neighborhood and the tinny clink of Trip biting at his lip ring. Kurt contemplated snapping at Trip to stop, but decided his near-silence wasn't worth breaking. He did his best to ignore it by focusing his attention elsewhere. He watched a van roll past on the road out front; swerving to avoid Trip's haphazardly parked car at the curb; he listened to the sounds of children a few houses down the street whooping in excitement—probably running through the sprinkler. He could smell someone grilling somewhere in the neighborhood. He felt Blaine's hand slip into his; he squeezed it gently and enjoyed the feeling of Blaine's sun-warmed skin against his own. It was all so deliciously normal.


	17. Chapter 15

Kurt was going to go straight home; he really was. He just…  _couldn't_  yet. He passed the sign for Lima and felt restless. He pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed the first number he could think of.

"Hello?"

"Hey, it's Kurt… could you meet me?"

"Um, sure, when?"

"Right now at the Lima Bean?"

"Is everything okay?"

"It's… yes… I just… could you?"

"Sure, I'm leaving now."

He hung up and went straight there; parked haphazardly in a back spot and went in. He was immediately soothed by the familiar surroundings—the scent of coffee; the chatter of patrons; even the feel of the chair was a strange comfort. Constant; known.

He didn't have to wait long—barely five minutes later, he saw Quinn breezing through the door.

She smiled awkwardly at him, "When you asked about a coffee date sometime soon, I didn't realize it would be  _this_  soon."

"Life doesn't seem to be adhering to any sort of timeline I give it these days," Kurt smiled sadly at her, "What do you want to drink? I'm buying."

She told him her drink order and waited at the table until he returned. She smiled gratefully at him and took a sip of her iced tea before looking back at him curiously, "You know, you and I never really talked much in school."

Kurt looked down at his own cup; picked at the edge of his lid, "I know…"

She turned her straw around i; watched the ice slide in slow circles around it in lazy circles, "But we were both the pretty ones who couldn't quite keep it all together."

Kurt smiled humorlessly at her, "I guess so."

She smiled a little at him, "So what was so urgent you needed to call a fellow messed up pretty girl to keep for company?"

"I quit my internship," He blurted. There it was. He'd officially said it out loud for himself.

She looked at him in surprise.

"Blaine…" Kurt closed his eyes; opened them again, "His mom told me Sunday night they're not going to let him go. He's too sick. I figured he wouldn't be able to, and I'd been thinking about it, but then it was real and the idea of leaving him here was real and I just… I couldn't go without him. So I quit."

Quinn didn't say anything. She reached out and slipped her fingers around his hands still wrapped around his coffee cup.

Kurt looked down at her slender hand wrapped around his; maybe it was just because she looked so damn sad, but he was suddenly defensive, "What? No questions about 'what the hell was I thinking?'"

"No," She shook her head; her voice quiet, "Why would I ask that?"

"Because it's what everyone else is going to be asking," The words tasted bitter on his tongue, "Because I was one of the people that was actually supposed to get out of here,"

"When has 'supposed to' ever come true for us?" Quinn's thumb brushed across the back of his hand.

Kurt looked away; his eyes focused on the menu for a minute before blurring with tears, "Was I stupid for believing it would once high school was over? I really thought… I had the internship and I had Blaine, and Rachel and I put a deposit in for the apartment. I really believed things were going to be…"

"… Perfect," She finished for him; her fingers gripping his tighter.

He looked back at her and nodded; the first tears finding their way down his cheeks. A bitter laugh escaped his mouth, "It sounds so stupid now. Thinking everything would just be the way I wanted it just because high school was over."

"You could still have your dream…when Blaine's better; you can still go," She looked down at her cup and her hand slid from his. It rested on the table between them and Kurt wasn't sure why, but he thought of Pavarotti as he stared at her sad, wilted fingers against the wood.

"You could still have yours, too," Kurt offered quietly.

She smiled bitterly at him and shook her head, "I was supposed to marry my high school sweetheart and be a real estate agent."

"Was that really your dream or was that what you were willing to settle for?" Kurt took a chance and rested his hand atop hers on the table, "You could have dreamed bigger than that, Quinn."

Quinn gave him a fierce look he hadn't seen on her face since her Cheerio days, "What, so I could feel as shitty as you do right now? So having nothing going for me could hurt even worse?"

Kurt cringed but said nothing.

Almost as sudden as her ferocity had come, it melted to regret, "I didn't mean that."

"…I don't regret wanting what I wanted. I just regret not appreciating how nice things are when you feel untouchable," Kurt studied their hands on the table between them, "…and I don't have nothing. I have Blaine."

Quinn stared down at their hands too, "What are you going to do now?"

"…I'm not sure… work for my dad, maybe," Kurt cringed, "He just found out I quit the internship. I'm supposed to be at home right now having a talk with him."

"Your dad's a nice guy," Quinn slid her hand out from under Kurt's, "He'll understand."

Kurt wanted to hold her hand again; make her smile, "Thank you for meeting me like this… and listening."

She smiled faintly, "It's not like I had anything better to do. I don't think I got the job."

"Right, you were going to an interview," Kurt shook his head, "I'm sorry—I'm whining and whining about me, and I didn't even think to ask."

"You have good reasons to whine," She got up from her chair; her cup still clutched between her hands.

He followed her toward the door, "I'll take you out for a real coffee date sometime; we don't even have to count this one."

"I'd like that," She turned toward him as they approached their cars.

He reached out a hand to squeeze her arm, but then she was wrapping him in a hug. After a moment of confusion, he returned it.

"Love's not something many people get the opportunity to keep in their lives, Kurt," She let him go, but her hand held at his elbow, "At least being tied to this stupid town is worth it for you."

He nodded; sniffled, "Thanks again."

She got into her car, and he slowly made his way to his own but remained still in the passenger seat long after he saw Quinn's car disappear out of the lot and down the street. As always though, time kept moving, and the inevitable remained fixed. He started his engine and made the short drive home.

 

* * *

"You know you made Kurt sound like a fun guy, right?" Trip stretched languorously and lay back in the grass; a hand tucked behind his head. The sun was getting low in the sky but he and Blaine had remained out in the yard; watched Kurt pull out of the driveway with his music playing too loud.

 

"He is," Blaine squinted up at the sky; the blue was turning hazy and a soft edge of gold was taking hold. He let out a sigh, "He's been different since we found out I was sick."

"People tend to do that—get weird when shit gets hard." Trip yawned.

"He's not weird," Blaine turned his head to look at Trip, "He's just… sad. All the time, even when he's happy, he's sad."

"Are you two still fucking?" Trip asked casually.

"Jesus, Trip," Blaine gave him a reproachful frown.

"Well are you?"

Blaine sighed; he and Trip had never had a conventional friendship… if he could even really call it a friendship, he wasn't entirely sure, "… No."

Trip gave him a grim look.

"It's not like we don't want to or—" Blaine paused; tried to organize his thoughts to keep the words flowing, "We haven't really tried except for this morning…"

"And what happened this morning?"

"You." Blaine made a face at him.

Trip let out a peel of laughter, and Blaine remembered why he had ever liked Trip in the first place at the sound. "Aw Jesus, no wonder he hates me."

"His dislike might also have something to do with the fact that you're a complete dick," Blaine frowned at him, "You're being awful."

"You clearly don't have as good of a long term memory as you claim, buddy. I was way meaner to you when we met than I have been to your little twink of a boyfriend." Trip rolled onto his side.

"Don't fucking talk about him like that," Blaine snapped.

Trip raised an eyebrow at the venom in Blaine's tone.

Blaine took in a slow breath; closed his eyes, "You had good reason to be nasty with me. You don't with him."

Trip groaned and flopped back onto his back, "Jesus Christ, what is with you and being the patron saint of protecting the pathetic?"

"He isn't pathetic; he's the strongest person I know," Blaine smiled up at the sky.

"You need to meet more people." Trip muttered.

"I mean it; get to know him," Blaine turned his face toward Trip, "He surprises people."

"Hn," Trip grunted in response.

"You know you're not—" Fuck, what was the word? "… Pathetic either."

"I think the hesitation in your speech there might have been more a Freudian slip than a tumor thing," Trip cringed, "I still can't believe you have that shit growing in your head."

"Join the club," Blaine mumbled, but then added, louder, "I mean it though, Trip. You can have a fresh start here."

"Blaine, honey, come inside; it's going to be getting cold." His grandma called out from the front door.

"On my way," He called back, but he made no attempt to move from his place in the yard.

A moment later, he heard the sound of the screen door shutting; the creak of feet on the porch, and then Helen's voice; gentle but scolding, "Blaine, don't just lie there; you'll end up forgetting I even told you to come in."

 _Filter, filter, filter._ He closed his eyes tight; tried to get a hold on the words already forming in his mouth—the snarky remarks about his ability to recognize his own body temperature; a nasty comment about the heat of hell. He didn't know if he could trust himself, so he opted to remain silent and just sit up.

He didn't miss the way she looked at Trip, and he wasn't sure if it was with equal or more distaste than the way she looked at Kurt. Trip stared back at her as he got to his feet, "I don't think we've ever had the pleasure of formally meeting."

Blaine knew that tone; Trip was either going to be dripping condescension or he was going to do something outrageous. He contemplated elbowing him hard in the side, but then his father was pulling into the driveway and he was distracted.

"I've heard about you." Was Helen's polite reply; her eyes saying more.  _I hear the whispers about you. I know what you did._

"Right, right; you live by Harry and Elaine," Trip smiled; tilted his head. He was definitely formulating something behind that Cheshire grin.

"Trip—" Blaine gave him a quick warning glance.

John squinted at Trip for a moment; trying to place him in his memory as he got out of his car and approached them, "I remember you from Maryland…Is it Tuck?"

"Trip," Trip smiled, "As in to catch your foot and fall flat on your face. As in what your kid did at some point this morning."

"I'll remember that," John's eyes flickered to Trip's lip ring once, and then over to Blaine, "Your mother called and told me about your head."

Blaine stopped himself from scowling and taking a step back when his father moved in closer; he was trying to do better with his father, not push him away even more. He held still and pushed his hat back for John to see the bruise, "It's fine."

John took another step forward; brushed his fingers over the spot. Blaine watched his face but couldn't read the expression. John smiled grimly at him, "Nothing worse than what you did when you were learning to walk."

"Gee, that's comforting," Blaine muttered. He hated feeling like a child; he hated it even more that he was now being compared to an infant.

"And nothing worse than what they typical drunk college kid gets at the bar," Trip chimed; clapping Blaine on the back.

Helen frowned at him from the porch, "Dinner will be ready soon."

John turned his attention out to the driveway, "Kurt didn't come over today?"

"No, he did. He had to go early though to deal with some stuff in Lima." Blaine shrugged, but in truth he was disappointed. He liked when Kurt stayed for dinner; nudged his foot under the table; brushed his fingers across Blaine's when he passed him something.

"Are you staying for dinner, Trip?" John looked him over again, and Blaine didn't miss the weariness in his face. Another friend of Blaine's his father would have to somehow learn to be patient with. Still… he was trying. That had to count for something.

"I think it should be a family dinner tonight, John," Helen gave him a pointed look, "It is Harry and Elaine's last night, after all and we haven't had a dinner without guests since we arrived."

Blaine closed his eyes; willed his mouth to remain closed too.

"Trip's parents are family friends of Elaine's—" John was reasoning gently and Blaine was grateful for his calm demeanor, but Trip cut him off smoothly.

"Gay-friend free dinner, I get it," Trip smiled up at her pleasantly.

Helen pursed her lips, "I never referred to anything having to do with lifestyle choices, young man, I was simply saying that—"

"Don't worry, really, we can be honest with each other," Trip turned his smile toward John.

"Trip," Blaine muttered his name sharply.

Trip ignored him, "And honestly, I think you're making excellent progress with my buddy Blaine, here."

Helen's face was a mixture of irritation and confusion.

Without warning, Trip turned toward Blaine with his same devilish smile.

"Trip, what—" Blaine wasn't entirely sure how it happened. One second Trip was a solid foot away; grinning at him, and the next he could taste smoke and feel a touch of cold metal against the side of his mouth. Trip was kissing him. Trip was fucking kissing him. He shoved him away hard; scrambled back a step, "Trip, what the hell!"

Trip wiped his mouth and turned his smile back up to Helen, "See? Rejecting gay kisses. I bet by this time tomorrow he'll be wearing socks under his shoes and marathoning episodes of Man Vs. Wild."

Helen stared at him, her cheeks red and her mouth hanging open in muted horror.

Trip clapped a hand on Blaine's arm, "I should be shoving off. Sorry about the kiss, I just haven't received the help you have with my impulses; I couldn't resist. See you tomorrow?"

Blaine blinked at him; nodded slowly as Trip made his way around to the driver's door of his car, "…Yeah. Tomorrow."

"Who knows, maybe I'll kiss Kurt tomorrow," Trip rested his arms on top of his car and smiled thoughtfully, "Or maybe I'll kiss  _you_ , Ms. A. Who knows what I'll do—I'm gay; I'm a savage, unpredictable heathen!"

Blaine watched his car peel away from the curb and tried to replay the past five minutes in his head; maybe he'd misinterpreted something; had some sort of tumor mess up in his head and hallucinated or something… when he looked at his father's white face though, he bit back a laugh. It had definitely happened.

Helen recovered slowly; folded her arms across her chest; glared at Blaine, "You should consider keeping better company, Blaine."

Blaine smiled absently at her, "Jesus hung out with prostitutes. I think I'm doing okay with my friends."

She gave him another pointed look before going back into the house without another word.

It was going to be a long dinner.

* * *

His father and Carol were already at the kitchen table when he got home. He folded his arms awkwardly across his chest and stared down at the floor.

"Come here and sit down, kid." Burt motioned a hand to the chair opposite them.

Kurt met Finn's eyes as he rushed from the kitchen in an attempt at avoiding the impending 'Big Talk'. He tripped on the rug in the family room as he scurried toward the stares.

Kurt glanced after him before slowly slipping into the chair his father had indicated. He said nothing.

Burt watched him for a long minute before pulling a piece of paper from his pocket, "Dear Mr. Hummel, We're sorry to hear you will not be joining us for the fall intern training program. While we understand that certain private matters may take precedent at this time in your life, we would like to reiterate the fact that, once deferred, your application will be resubmitted with others who were not hired and no preferential treatment will be given should you decide to reapply in the future."

Kurt set his jaw so tight it made the tendons in his neck ache. He would not cry. He couldn't.

"What the hell were you thinking, Kurt?" Burt's eyes burned into the top of Kurt's head as he stared down at the table, "You threw away your best chance of breaking out of here just like that? A three-line e-mail to this Colette lady telling her you quit and not a word to anyone about it? To  _me_?"

Kurt flinched but remained silent. He focused on a purple-tinted smudge on the tabletop—jam, maybe, from someone's toast that morning that had evaded Carol's washcloth.

"Kurt, this thing was a huge deal to you; you ran around the house shouting about it for an hour when you got the letter!" Burt waved the paper between them, "And just like that you go and give it up? All that work for nothing?"

"It was not for nothing," Kurt's fingers pressed into his palms, he looked up to meet his father's gaze, "I did not give it up for nothing."

"It's Blaine," Carol said quietly; sad understanding creasing her mouth down into a frown.

Burt glanced toward Carol before looking back to Kurt; waiting.

Kurt nodded almost imperceptibly; his voice came out small, "Mrs. Anderson told me they can't let him go."

"So you quit your internship. Just like that," Burt watched him intently.

Kurt felt tears prickling at the corners of his eyes, "I can't just leave him."

"Blaine has an entire network of people here who can take care of him, Kurt, he has—"

"He needs  _me,_ " Kurt snapped; the tears burning even hotter behind his eyes, "And I need him, too."

"I'm not saying you two would have to break up, but Kurt, you've got yourself buried so deep in all this—"

"By 'all this' you mean the person I love having cancer, right?" Kurt dug his nails into his palms even harder.

Burt let out an exasperated sigh, "Don't act like I'm trying to be heartless toward you right now, Kurt, you know it's not like that. Who pays for you to drive down there everyday, huh?"

Kurt turned his gaze back down to the table and scowled at the jam stain.

"What I'm trying to say, buddy, is that you haven't even given yourself a chance to take a step back and really evaluate things," Burt's voice was calmer, gentle even, "I know right now this feels like the only thing that makes sense, but what about five months from now? When Rachel's in the city and your friends are gone to school and you're still here; how are you going to feel then?"

Kurt remained mute.

"It's not going to be fair to you or to Blaine if you start to feel resentful because you gave up all your plans to stick it out in Ohio," Burt reached a hand across the table toward his son despite Kurt's hands being buried in his lap; it rested there within Kurt's view as he spoke, "I know you think what you're doing is the only thing you can do to show you love him, but what if isn't?"

Kurt stared down at his father's hand; the perpetual gray shadow of oil in the edges of his nail beds that could never really be fully scrubbed out; the wedding band on his left hand. He wanted to hold his hand; cry out how badly he wanted the city, how much it hurt to think of the internship—pretty, shiny silk that he'd let slide through his fingers. But no, that was only a piece of the picture; there were things he could never let go of; things that, no matter how slippery, he could never loosen his hold on, "You knew mom was going to die and you never left her, did you?"

Burt's fingers jerked out in a little jolt of surprise, "Kurt, Blaine's not going to—"

"I'm not talking about Blaine, I'm talking about Mom," Kurt broke his gaze from his father's hand to meet his eyes intently, "You  _knew_ things weren't going to last, but it never even occurred to you to try and run away, did it? And you can't say it's because you had me to look out for. Whether or not I had been in the picture, you would have stayed with her to the end, right?"

Burt searched Kurt's eyes, "Kurt—"

"Right?" Kurt pounded a fist on the table. He knew it was childish, but he needed to do something to make himself heard; show his frustration.

Burt held his gaze, "Yes, I would have stayed. We were married, Kurt, I made a promise to her, and I—"

Kurt saw the understanding flash across his face before Burt looked away. He spoke steadily, "and you loved her."

Burt didn't move at first, but then his head nodded slightly; his voice was quiet, "Yes."

"I love him just like you loved her, Dad."

"You're so young, Kurt." Burt studied his son sadly.

"You were seventeen when you met Mom." Kurt snapped.

"I wasn't saying you were too young to love someone the way you do," Burt reached out again, this time wrapping his hand around Kurt's, "I'm saying you're young to be carrying this kind of weight on your shoulders."

"Well I've been accustomed to a heavy load for a long time, haven't I?" Kurt regretted the iciness in his tone immediately when his father's hand shrank back from his own.

Kurt could hear the heavy sound of Finn's footsteps somewhere above them, but the kitchen was silent. Carol's eyes were on Burt ,and Burt's eyes on the table.

"All right," Burt finally spoke; his tone weary.

Kurt wasn't sure what that meant. He had not asked for permission, and while the idea of his father's disapproval knotted his stomach, he didn't require it.

Burt met Kurt's eyes again, "But you're not going to see him tomorrow."

"Dad!" Kurt half-stood, but Burt was already motioning for him to sit back down.

"Hey, listen, I'm not trying to be mean, but you need a day off from this whether you want it or not," Burt reached into his pocket and slid something across the table.

Kurt sat back down slowly, eyeing the silver plastic of his father's credit card, "What's that for?"

"You are going to take one day and you're going to go do what you did before Blaine got sick; you're going to do what a kid is supposed to be doing with his summer—go to the mall; get lunch with some of your friends," Burt nodded toward the card, "You can even get something for Blaine if you want."

"But I can't talk to him tomorrow," Kurt tried to process the offer; untangle its implications.

"I never said that. Text him if you want, but I'm trusting you to stay out of New Albany."

Kurt rubbed his finger over the top of the card; felt the imprint of his father's name and the neat line of numbers, "Why don't you want me to see him?"

"Kurt," Burt sighed, "I'm not trying to punish you; I just need you to take off the blinders for a day and remember you have an entire life. You can't let him being sick wipe all of that away."

Kurt closed his fingers around the credit card and slid it into his pocket, "…okay."

"Okay?" Burt tried to meet Kurt's gaze.

Kurt complied and met his father's eyes and nodded, "I'll stay away from him for the day."

"First thing Thursday you can go right back over," Burt assured him, "I can even call his parents so he knows you're not there because of me."

"No, no, don't do that," Kurt shook his head quickly, "I haven't told him yet about the internship—I'll come up with something to say to him myself."

"He's going to figure out something's off when you're not packed to leave in September, Kurt; you need to talk to him," Carol spoke gently.

Burt raised a hand to quiet her, "Let him worry about that another day. Starting now, you focus on you, Kurt; got it?"

"Yeah, I got it," Kurt was suddenly exhausted, "Can I go to my room now?"

"Sure, buddy," Burt motioned a hand toward the stairs; releasing Kurt from the table and their talk.

Kurt stood and moved toward the steps, but paused, "Dad?"

Burt looked up at him expectantly from the table.

"… Thank you for…." Kurt chewed at his lip for a second, "For the credit card."

"You're welcome," Burt smiled, "Try not to bankrupt me though, all right?"

"Yeah, sure," Kurt tried to offer a smile, but it felt stiff and out of place, so he gave up and jogged up the stairs to the sanctuary of his bedroom. He shut the door behind him and stretched out on his back across the bed, sighing at the loveliness of finally being alone for a moment.

Someone knocked on the door and he fought off the urge to groan out loud, "What?"

The door cracked open, "Can I come in?"

Kurt sat up quickly, "Rachel, I didn't know you were here."

She slipped in and leaned her back against the closed door, "I didn't want to just leave you here to have to get in trouble because I ratted you out."

"Well look at you following through with the mess you made; some might say you've done some maturing since sophomore year, Rachel." He didn't know why he was being mean, but he couldn't help it.

"I don't regret doing it," She looked down at her shoes—awful, shiny black Mary Janes that Kurt decided needed to be burned as soon as possible, "You need someone to lean on too, Kurt. Blaine's not the only one getting eaten up by this."

"It is not eating him up, he's going to be fine," Kurt snapped; glowering at her.

"I didn't mean to say he's not going to get better," Rachel looked up at him quickly; her eyes were shining with tears, "But Kurt, you haven't acted like this since before you met Blaine—you're distant and you're losing weight and you get mean so no one sees how much you're hurting."

He looked away from her; clenched his teeth to try and still the familiar lump growing in his throat, "I'm fine."

Rachel moved in closer; sat down on the edge of the bed, "You can say that as much as you want, but everyone knows it Kurt, and no one would think you're weak for falling apart, after what's already happened with your dad and your mom… It's understandable if you're sad."

Kurt pulled his knees up to his chest; chewed at his thumbnail, "I'm sad, you're right. But I don't have to fall apart."

She was quiet again, but, finally, she moved in closer; rested her head on his shoulder, "You're sure?"

He jumped when he bit into his cuticle and drew blood, "I'm positive."

Rachel was quiet for a long time, "What'd your dad say?"

"I have to take a day off from Blaine tomorrow." Kurt started in on chewing the nail of his index finger, "I'm being sent on a mandatory trip to the mall."

Rachel smiled, "That's not so bad, is it?"

"I guess not… I'll buy you a new pair of shoes to wear in the city so the ones currently on your feet never again see the light of day." He tipped his head down onto hers to study her feet.

"Who's going to insult my entire wardrobe and dress me for auditions in New York?" Rachel teased, but her voice trembled.

Kurt pulled his hand from his mouth and wrapped his arms around her, "I'm going to figure something out, Rachel, I swear."

"Don't worry about it, you have enough on your plate," Rachel wiped quickly at her eyes, "I'll… I'll work around it. It'll be a great story for my memoir someday."

"No, really, I can—" An idea suddenly started taking shape in his mind, "I have an idea."

 

* * *

Wolves. No…that wasn't true. Just one wolf. Big and gray and smelling like wet dog, and it was following him, or was he following it? He didn't know. They walked through misty fields; Blaine's feet bare and caked with mud. He was aware of his toes being painfully cold and he wished he'd had the foresight to put on shoes, but still they pressed on toward the horizon. He'd been here before, and he didn't like being back. It was lonely here; quiet and grey and dead, the only sound coming from the rustle of tall yellow grass brushing his sides; crunching below his feet and letting more cold, wet earth coat his skin.

"I wish you talked," Blaine muttered but, of course, was greeted with silence. He hated that big gray dog almost more than he hated the field. He was constantly torn between taking comfort in the knowledge of something else living at his side and being terrified the thing would turn and lunge at him. Tear apart his skin with heavy paws; sink his teeth into his throat. He side-stepped away from it, but it just followed closer.

They never went anywhere. Never progressed further one direction or the other. They just…walked. Blaine passed the time asking questions that fell on uncaring ears.

"How come we're the only ones here?" Blaine spread his fingers and let the grass catch against his palm; tangle at his wrist.

More silence.

He looked around; up at the low, gray sky, down at the cold, wet earth; out at the endless field of misty browns and grays. A particularly thick piece of grass snagged hard on his hand and held tight until it pulled free from the ground, still twisted around his fingers. Blaine toyed with it between both hands; weaving it into a strip of knots. A thought flickered through his head, "Why do we walk at all. Why don't we just stand still ever?"

It was a tantalizing thought; to break from the routine; the endless trek into nothingness. Blaine halted abruptly and looked around as though it might change something of the scenery.

The wolf turned to watch him; nose twitching; black eyes studying his still form. It growled—a low rumble of sound deep in its throat that made Blaine shiver, but he remained still, staring back at the big dog. It growled again; this time curling it's lips back to show yellowed teeth; a guttural sounding bark passing out its mouth. It didn't speak, but the message was clear enough.  _Keep walking._

"You could go," Blaine swallowed hard; the knots of his blade of grass pressing hard into his palm as he gripped it hard in his fist, "You don't have to stay with me."

It snarled again, took a step toward him. Snapped its teeth.

Blaine shook his head resolutely, but now he was frightened and sure that he'd rather risk loneliness than the violence of his companion, "I'm not going."

Suddenly it lunged and seemed so much bigger; hulking and powerful—all gleaming teeth and dangerous claws. Blaine stumbled back a step and fell with a cry.

It bore down on him—its smell overwhelming and it's growling so loud it filled Blaine's ears. He could do nothing but close his eyes and wait for the inevitable. His ears were filled with the sound of something familiar then…his name; it was his name he heard being called over and over again...

"Blaine… Blaine, honey, it's time to get up."

He woke with a start; his skin clammy and his head aching. He blinked blearily up at the ceiling; what time was it? A familiar hand stroked his head, "Morning, sleepyhead. I know you're tired, but you have a doctor's appointment."

He turned his head and blinked at his mother, "Chemo's on Thursday."

"This is the appointment I just scheduled yesterday," She sat down on the edge of his bed, "Remember?"

"Yeah, I remember." He rooted through his sleep-muddled brain to actually find the memory.

"You need to get up, sweetie, we have to be out of here no later than eight."

"All right, I'll get up. I'll meet you downstairs." He yawned.

"Will you actually get up if I leave, or will you roll over and go back to sleep?"

He didn't want to sleep. He didn't want to pick up that nightmare where it left off, "I'll get up. Scouts' honor."

"You were never a boy scout," She smiled, "and you've tried that trick before on me."

"Well then on my honor," Blaine lazily crossed his heart with a finger.

"Fine, just try not to dawdle," She kissed his forehead and disappeared out of the room. He knew he'd done well today by her smile; there were other days she left with tears in her eyes or her jaw set tight.

He rolled onto his back and held up his right hand above his face; watched his thumb tick against his palm—caught in some bizarre state of rapture all its own. He splayed out his fingers; pulled them in close to his palm; repeated the gesture. It was the same routine every morning—a half-hearted attempt to ease the little spasm of muscles, but it didn't really bother him all that much to have it happen, not anymore anyway. He pushed himself up onto his elbows and finally kicked his feet over the side of the bed. They were too warm from sleeping with socks on. He peeled them off and dropped them down onto the bed before shuffling to the bathroom. Real or not—he still had that smell in his nose and he wanted it out. He cranked on the faucet of the bathtub and switched it over to the showerhead. If he was lucky, he could get in the shower before his mother decided to try and start asking him questions through the bathroom door. He peeled off his pajama pants and shirt. He turned to inspect himself in the mirror and he flinched.

He could get used to the twitch in his hand; the momentary fog that lurked around the corners of his head when he first woke up; the constant unease of his stomach. He could not get used to his hair. He was grateful for his eyebrows and his eyelashes still holding on for dear life, but the top of his head still bothered him. He tilted it from side to side; inspected the spot that had been steadily thinning above his left ear and touched it tenderly. It didn't look any worse from the previous night's sleep, and he was grateful for at least that. He ran his fingers over the back of his head, holding his breath as he waited for the soft hair to give way to smooth, bare skin. He let out a long breath when he'd traced his entire scalp. Everything was still there. He took one last look at himself when the mirror began to fog over and memorized his face before slipping behind the shower curtain. He jumped back when the water scalded his skin and quickly turned down the temperature before tentatively stepping back under the steady flow of water. He let it run over his shoulders; over his knees; pool at his toes, and enjoyed the heat for a long minute before reaching for shampoo. He smiled to himself—Kurt had invested in a whole slew of hair care products he swore were going to make Blaine's hair grow back faster—or maybe they were just supposed to let him keep the hair he still had… Blaine couldn't remember, but the thought of anything Kurt made him happy. He poured the soap into his palm and could practically hear Kurt—completely assured in his product choices.

" _Good hair doesn't just happen, Blaine, it requires a rigid routine and quality care. Look at mine; do you think I buy generic brand shampoo and just hope for the best? No."_

He shook his head. He could think about Kurt later; he needed to go through his day. A lot road on whether or not he could parrot things discussed the previous day. Reiterating plans to take Natalie and Ava to the park; asking about the lunch meeting his father had held; any little detail he could dredge up was treated like a miracle by his parents. He rolled his eyes to himself, but started in on the process anyway; running through the events of the day slowly as he massaged shampoo into his scalp; prodding at the memories for anything important. Breakfast… he didn't remember eating breakfast yesterday, but that didn't matter—he ate toast every morning. Then there'd been watching his parents have a muted argument near the garage door… listening to his grandmother talk about the beach house that remained lonely and vacant somewhere out East and how it had come into the family in the first place—he didn't remember the details, but he was fairly sure he wouldn't have noted the details of that particular tale even pre-cancer…what else… he'd played with the girls; hit his head on the table—the doctor's appointment today... Kurt came over; Kurt wore his maroon colored vest; Kurt looked sad and tired… Trip! Trip was in Ohio and Kurt didn't like him. Blaine giggled aloud to himself. He had planned on easing Kurt into the idea of Trip—trying to explain his abrasiveness; his aggressiveness, but life rarely lent itself to adhering to his plans, now did it?

He let out a gasp of surprise, his mental itinerary abruptly cut short, and quickly pulled his hands away from his head; a patch of short dark hair mixed with the suds in his palms. He groaned and rinsed them clean; watched it all disappear down the drain. He washed his body; made a face when he brushed a washcloth over the ugly bruised place where the PICC line had been and turned off the water. The shower didn't seem so comforting anymore.

He patted his skin dry; inspected himself in the mirror a second time. The patch of hair had come from that damn spot. The spot by his left ear he had  _known_ was going to fall out, but it still made something in his heart sink. He turned his attention to his body—the hollow below his sternum; the increasing knobbiness of his elbows. He knew it was vain; he knew he should feel happy or blessed or whatever that he was alive; that he was fortunate to be receiving treatment that was considered the top of the medical line, but studying his sallow skin; the marked up crooks of his arms; the pink of his scalp in stark contrast to the dark hair around it; that ridiculous bruise on his forehead—purple and already yellowing around the edges… he turned away from the mirror and allowed himself his moment of bitterness—the same few seconds he'd given himself each day to be horribly upset about something petty and shallow. He let the moment pass and then rolled his shoulders and bounced on his toes. He felt good today, he decided. He wrapped his towel around his waist and went back into his bedroom to ready himself for the day. He pushed through the shirts in his closet idly; settled on a kelly green polo that Kurt claimed to loathe and giggled to himself; there was something ridiculously sexy about Kurt when he was irritated, and the shirt was sure to illicit some sort of reaction. He paired it with dark jeans before pulling on a pair of Sperrys and tugging the navy blue beanie over his head. He studied his reflection in the floor length mirror.

He made a face at himself, "This is about as good as it gets."

He went to his desk, ignored the weekly pill organizer his mother had set out, and picked the pills from the orange bottles himself—he hated that pill organizer. A big blue letter on each little box signifying the day and time; the pills sorted out neatly in the correct dosage; like he couldn't handle reading directions on the side of the bottle; like he'd forget a routine that was as regimented into his schedule as brushing his teeth. He glanced at the contents of the bottles through the orange plastic—big, little, round, capsules, blue, green, white; a whole carnival selection of pills—the nausea one was empty; he'd have to warn his mother; she'd be pleased with his attention to detail.  _Another gold star for Blaine._ Blaine closed his hand around the pills; careful to not drop any, as he made his way down the steps.

"You're up early," John was in the kitchen, nursing a cup of coffee, "Are you feeling all right?"

"Yeah, I feel great," Blaine went to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water, "Doctor's appointment today."

"Did you take—"

"Taking them now." Blaine cupped his palm to his mouth and chased it with a quick gulp from the water bottle.

"Your mother would kill you if she saw you trying to down all of those at once." John frowned.

"She's not down here though, is she?" Blaine smiled faintly and went to the cupboard to pull out the bread…maybe he'd even have two pieces of toast…

"You sleep all right last night?"

Blaine dropped the bread down into the toaster and shrugged, "Fine. Weird dreams."

"You should tell your grandma about them; she likes to analyze dreams," Blaine listened to the sound of John turning a page in his newspaper.

"She'll attribute them all to God trying to tell me to like girls," Blaine smiled humorlessly down at the toaster.

"Is she still giving you trouble for that?" John's voice was flat; tired.

He wanted to say no; he knew he should say no, "She leaves books by my bed."

"She  _what_?"

Blaine flinched. _Thinking pause. Stop and think before you open your fucking mouth._ He couldn't think of how to respond so he shrugged; met his father's eyes briefly.

John let out a long sigh, "I'll talk to her."

"It's fine," Blaine shrugged, "Just… don't tell mom about it."

John studied him curiously, and Blaine, not knowing what to do under that look, turned to the cupboard for a plate.

"When's Kurt coming over?"

Blaine glanced over his shoulder at his father. It was strange, hearing his father voice an interest in Kurt; voice Kurt's name at all… "Dunno, this afternoon probably."

John got up and rinsed his coffee mug in the sink, "…are you sure you don't want me to—"

"No, it's fine, she won't be here that much—fuck that's hot!" Blaine dropped the toast down onto his plate quickly and stuck his burned fingers into his mouth.

"Language," John patted him on the shoulder, "I'm going to work; I'll be home around five tonight. Good luck at the doctors; try not to kill the nurse if she has to prick your finger."

"I'll do my best," Blaine smiled grimly and waved his father off.

Elizabeth and John passed one another in the doorway. He touched a kiss to her cheek, "I'll see you later tonight."

Blaine wanted that. Wanted to kiss Kurt goodbye in the kitchen of his and Rachel's little apartment before he left for classes. Go home to him at night; wake up to him in the morning. His parents didn't have to know he wasn't sleeping in his dorm room…

"You look happy," Elizabeth turned her gaze toward Blaine.

"I'm thinking about Kurt," he blurted.

She laughed as she crossed the kitchen to the coffee pot, "I'm not sure if you meant to tell me that or not, but it was sweet either way…. Two pieces of toast this morning?"

"I'm feeling ambitious," Blaine gave her a dry smile and pulled off a corner of the bread to pop into his mouth.

"Do the best you can," She patted his hand as she went to the counter to retrieve the car keys.

"If the best I can do today is two pieces of toast for breakfast, I'm going to be in big trouble at the doctor's office."

She dropped down the jar of peanut butter beside his plate.

"What's this for?" Blaine turned the jar around in his hands.

"Doing better than just two pieces of toast," She kissed his cheek, "You have lots of chances to top your bests, Blaine."

Blaine spread peanut butter across one piece of bread; smiled with his mother when he licked the knife clean.

But once they'd left home and were pulling into the parking lot of the clinic, he had no more smiles to spare for her. Toast and brain scans didn't seem quite so comparable when his heart was beating so hard in his chest he was sure he could feel it striking his ribs. Still, as he sat down in a chair in the waiting room and felt too much food sitting heavily in his stomach, he closed his eyes and willed good news.

 

* * *

Kurt jolted awake. The first thing he was aware of was that he hadn't showered the night before.  _Ew. Ew, ew, ew_. The next was that he'd fallen asleep on top of his comforter; his laptop beneath his face and his cell phone tucked awkwardly underneath his stomach. He pulled it out and checked the time. 9:53. Had he really slept that late? He dropped his phone down and decided not to fuss over the time. He needed to shower.  _Now_.

He cranked up the water and hopped in before the water even had time to heat up. His muscles tensed beneath the icy water, but soon enough, it turned warmer and his body relaxed under the pressure of it hitting his back and shoulders. He filled his palm with shampoo and scrubbed hard at his scalp. He hadn't forgotten about his mandatory day away from Blaine but that didn't mean he'd acclimated to the idea—he hadn't even texted Blaine yet to tell him he wasn't coming over. He'd been busy making other plans late into the night, and Blaine was usually in bed no later than ten. He contemplated how to go about telling Blaine… for today he'd say his father asked him to help out around the shop; that was easy enough, but he needed to come clean about New York and soon; he needed to call the Andersons; figure out when they were telling Blaine about his dorm already being given up; the tuition return probably pending… Kurt stepped under the stream of water again; felt the suds slide down the back of his calves and cursed himself again for falling asleep without rinsing himself off of the day last night. He'd have to spend extra time on his moisturizing routine to make up for the breach in his schedule… he shampooed his hair again; conditioned it; washed his body and toweled off before inspecting himself in the mirror. He'd be lying if he said he didn't like checking himself out—he was proud of his body now; he'd worked hard on it—lifting with Finn and Puck from time to time (with his Ipod in, of course, to drain out their conversation), followed the monthly workouts in  _Cosmo_ ; eaten a protein-rich diet, and the results were pleasing. He wasn't built by anyone's standards, but he looked good—his stomach was tight; his arms small but neatly sculpted; only his thighs still gave him pause as he looked himself over.

He winked at himself once in the mirror; tilted his head. Too bad he couldn't see Blaine today; he was feeling particularly sexy. Maybe he'd start off with that as a text to Blaine before saying he couldn't come over; tease him a little…

He styled his hair and selected his outfit before going to fetch his phone to text Blaine, but Blaine had already beaten him to it.

_When are you coming over? –Blaine_

_Damn, you weren't supposed to ask me that until after I texted you to tell you I'm feeling sexier than usual today ;) –Kurt_

He hit send, but then, almost simultaneously, his phone was vibrating in his palm to signal another new text from Blaine. It had to have been sent before Kurt had sent his own; delayed by some odd clash of cell phone signals or something—there was no way Blaine had already read his message, let alone responded. Blaine was confined to using only his left hand and it proved to be a time consuming process, especially when he worked to avoid typos.

_I need you._

Kurt's heart ache in his chest and he desperately wanted to take back his last message. He typed out a response quickly.

_Are you okay?_

He waited impatiently for the response. It didn't take as long as usual.

_No._

_I'll be there as soon as I can. I love you._

Kurt grabbed his keys from his nightstand and jogged down the steps; his phone nested between his shoulder and his ear while he listened to it ring.

"Hummel's Auto—"

"Finn, could you put my dad on the phone?"

"Uh, sure, hold on."

Kurt listened to Finn fumble with the phone for a minute before shouting for Burt. A moment later, his father's voice filled his ear, "If you already maxed out the credit card—"

"Dad, I need to go to Blaine's."

Burt let out a long sigh on his side of the line, "Kurt, we talked about this. Is it really so bad to spend the day—"

"Something's wrong though, Dad. He's upset about something—please?" Kurt was already in the car and speeding past the Lima limits. He was going whether his father said yes or not, "I'll do the Me Day thing tomorrow even; he's supposed to have chemo, but I'll tell his friend Trip to go with him. He needs me today though, Dad, he  _asked_  for me to be with him."

There was a long pause on Burt's end of the line. Kurt could hear the sounds of the shop in the background—men's voices; clanking tools; the hum of an engine, "…All right."

"Thank you, Dad," Kurt closed his eyes for a brief second in relief.

"Just try and be home for supper tonight, all right?" Burt sounded tired, "We don't see much of you anymore."

 _You'll be seeing plenty of me all school year._ "I will. I love you."

"Love you, too, buddy. Drive safe and give Blaine our best."

Kurt dropped his phone down into the passenger seat, but he didn't turn his music on to fill the silence as he usually did. He picked his brain for what could possibly be bothering Blaine.

Maybe his grandma… not his dad, things had been going well between Blaine and John… he didn't sound angry; he seemed upset, hurting…

Kurt felt his heart leap into his throat. The doctor's appointment. He'd completely forgotten about Blaine's doctor's appointment. He pushed his foot down harder on the gas pedal and the car sped up, but his mind moved faster. What could they have found in the check up? More cancer? Ineffective treatment? Something else?

He drove faster still; flew through a stop sign; ignored the slurred sound of a car's horn somewhere behind him. He made it to New Albany in record time. His sense of distress only worsened when he saw John's car parked in the open garage. He decided to scrap good manners and went straight through the garage door without so much as a knock.

Helen saw him first; she looked him over without a word.

"Where's Blaine?" Kurt demanded breathlessly.

"The family room with his parents." She responded quietly.

Kurt was not comforted by her lack of iciness. He brushed past her and into the family room.

John and Elizabeth were seated side-by-side on the couch—John was in his work suit; he looked tired.

Blaine was in the chair across from them; sitting oddly straight in his seat; his arms folded tight against his chest. His eyes met Kurt's and a wash of relief colored his face.

Kurt moved in closer and sat down on the armrest. He brushed a hand over the back of Blaine's neck, not caring who it might make uncomfortable, "What's wrong?"

"They did some fast lab work today and took a second look at his last set of scans," Elizabeth spoke for Blaine when his only response was to tip his head in closer to Kurt's side, "They don't think the treatment's been aggressive enough."

Kurt stretched his hand out farther until his arm was fully draped over Blaine's shoulders; he swallowed to keep his voice from shaking, "So what do they want to do?"

"They need to wait for his newest lab work to get back, but they think they want to try a different drug," Elizabeth paused and John's hand moved to her knee, "And they think a second surgery is probably going to be necessary somewhere down the line."

They'd known it was a possibility, but it still made Kurt oddly light headed. He squeezed his hand down around Blaine's shoulder and shifted in closer. Blaine was looking up at him—sad; tired.

He still had his hat on, but Kurt touched a kiss to the top of it anyway, "It's okay. It'll be okay."

Blaine was quiet for a while, "I still don't…would I have to come home for something like that? Can they do it in the city?"

Kurt was sure his heart skipped a beat. He still thought he was going. He still thought Kurt was going. Blaine's thick headedness could be painfully frustrating at times, but it had never stung so bad as it did in that moment.

Elizabeth and John exchanged a long look before she nodded almost imperceptibly.

"What?" Blaine looked between them; suspicion clouding his face.

"Blaine…" John met Blaine's eyes and held his gaze, "You're not going to New York."

Blaine startled, "W—what?"

"Blaine, we can't let you—"

"No," Blaine was shaking his head, "Please, no."

Elizabeth looked at him sadly, "Blaine, baby, it's for the best—going to school on top of the chemo and the cancer, even if we end up not having to do the surgery, it's going to be too much—"

"So let me go to New York for the year and work," Blaine looked between the desperately. Kurt tightened his grip on Blaine's shoulder, he was sure Blaine knew the argument was irrational, but he couldn't bring himself to say anything.

"Honey, you can't. It's too much. If you really want to be doing something, we can try to get you a job around here, or you could enroll in a few courses at the community college in Westerville—"

"Please," He was crying; tears sliding down his cheeks and off his chin.

"We're not trying to be cruel, Blaine," John spoke softly.

"I can't stay here; I c-can't let this thing hold me here," Kurt felt Blaine slip out from under his arm, and he was suddenly on his knees in front of his father, he looked up at him through tear-soaked lashes, "m-maybe a community college in the City—I just need to get away—"

"Going to New York won't make any of this go away, Blaine," John touched a tentative hand to the top of his head, "I wish it could, but it won't. We'll send you next year when things are better, I promise."

Blaine sank back down until he was sitting on the carpet, he stared down at a loose string on the bottom of his jeans with miserable eyes, "What if it isn't gone next year?"

"It'll be gone by next year." John said assuredly, though his eyes spoke a different story.

Blaine was silent. Kurt could only see his back—clad in that awful bright green shirt that was the color of Astroturf and tacky St. Patrick's Day decorations and trembling with his quiet crying. He slid down off the arm of the chair and sat back on his heels beside Blaine. He placed a hand on his back, but otherwise left him untouched.

Kurt felt the tears before he realized he was crying, just like he heard the words before he realized he was speaking them, "I'm not going either."


	18. Chapter 16

Blaine smiled when he saw the name on his caller ID; he hitched his bag up higher on his shoulder and balanced the phone between his shoulder and ear as he unlocked the door to his dorm room, "Hey, you, what's go—"

"I got a letter." Kurt cut him off abruptly.

"What le—wait,  _the_  letter? Did you get the job?" Blaine sat down on the edge of his bed and dropped his bag down on the ground beside him. He waved silently to a group of boys passing his open door.

"I don't know."

Blaine frowned, "How can you not know?"

Kurt shifted the phone to his other hand; "I'm staring at it right now. It's in the mailbox."

"You haven't even taken it out of the mailbox yet?" Blaine blinked; confused, "How do you even know it's for—"

"I can see the logo on it." Kurt stared at the silvery embossed symbol on the envelope just barely peaking out of the box.

"So you're just standing outside, in the dead of winter, staring at your mailbox." Blaine couldn't help but smile. Only Kurt.

"Yes." Kurt glanced down at the ad for a maid service in his hand to ensure it, too, wasn't some how connected to the internship. It was the only thing he'd managed to pull out of the box before spying the letter.

"All right, well," Blaine crossed his legs on the bed, "Does it look big or little?"

"Big…ish." Kurt squinted into the box.

"Biggish?" Blaine rolled his eyes, "Give me dimensions."

"I can't, it bends up on the edges in the box." Kurt tilted his head to try and get a better look.

Blaine closed his eyes and smiled, "That would constitute as big, which constitutes as good."

"…Maybe… it's not like huge though, it's just…" Kurt cranked his head the other way to get a new perspective, "It's just not standard letter size is all."

"Kurt," Blaine bit back a laugh, "Take it out of the mailbox and open it."

"I am  _not_ opening it." Kurt took a step back as though the letter might actually leap out into his hands.

"How are you supposed to find out if you got the job if you don't open the letter?" Blaine tried to sound calm and not teasing.

"How am I supposed to live with myself when I open it and it's a rejection?" Kurt bunched the maid service flyer in his hand.

"It's not going to be a rejection."  _Oh God, please, oh please, don't let it be a rejection letter._

"You don't know that." Kurt insisted. He contemplated just closing the box, going back into the house, and pretending he'd never seen it.

"Neither do you unless you open it."

"Will you come over?" Kurt asked abruptly. He looked down the road as though he expected Blaine's car to appear around the corner at any given moment.

"Right now?" Blaine glanced at his clock. It wasn't as though it would be any big issue with his schedule. He was done with classes for the day, and it was a Friday; he had planned on going to Lima to visit Kurt after Warblers' rehearsal anyway…

"Please?" Kurt whined, "I need emotional support."

"What would happen to you if I left two hours from now as apposed to this very second?" Blaine pulled his notes he'd jotted down in preparation for the next Warblers performance from his backpack and scanned through them.

"I will either go tragically insane from the stress of knowing this thing is out here," Kurt sighed deeply; his breath formed a cloud in front of his face in the icy air, "Or I'll die from hypothermia."

"Do you at least have your jacket on?" Blaine glanced toward his frosted over window.

"No, I was planning on just running out here to grab the mail," Kurt rolled his eyes, but shivered. His thin sleeves were doing little to block out the icy January air, and his feet were growing painfully numb. Still, he sighed again, "But I'm so emotionally distraught and lacking someone to hold my hand that I can't bring myself to go back inside. But it's okay, if you need to go to Warblers' Rehearsal, I can just lose all of my toes and part of my nose to frostbite, don't worry about—"

Blaine groaned, "All right, all right, I'll get one of the guys to cover Warblers practice for me and then I'll be over."

"Hurry, please, I think I can feel my heart slowing down," Kurt closed the mailbox decisively and started trudging back up the driveway through the thin coating of snow.

"I don't think it happens that fast." Blaine loosened his Dalton tie and got up from his bed to find a shirt to wear over to Kurt's.

"It could," Kurt jogged the last couple of steps into the house, unable to stand being in the cold any longer, "And are you walking and talking right now?"

"Oh my God, yes, I'll be out of here in two minutes," Blaine laughed and pulled a long sleeved Dalton shirt from his closet, "Please go inside?"

Kurt closed the door as quietly as he could, "If you insist, I suppose I could."

"You can be so—" Blaine smiled; shook his head, "I'll be there soon. I love you."

The roads were slick with ice, and the drive to Lima was a slow one. Kurt had sent exactly ten text messages over the past two hours, but they remained unread until Blaine was pulled into the Hudson-Hummel driveway. He smiled when he opened them.

_2:33: We hung up four minutes ago; please tell me you're on your way._

_2:57: I'm going to assume you didn't answer my last text because you're fully focused on driving as quickly but safely as possible to Lima._

_3:09: If you haven't left yet and you're just ignoring my texts, I'm never going to give you another blowjob again_

_3:09: EVER._

_3:24: If you still haven't left, sex has now been taken out of your life, too. I am going to wear the tightest jeans I own around you, and you will die from sexual frustration all because you couldn't bring yourself to leave at a decent time to rush to my side and support me through my emotional crisis._

_3:25: You better not be reading these and laughing because you have no idea how serious I am right now_

_3:38: I'm sorry I'm being silly; I just really want you to be here with me for this no matter what's inside that envelope._

_3:39: …and I would never take sex away from you…that would mean punishing myself._

_4:11: I hope you're not reading these while you drive. If you get into a car crash and die, I will never get to open this letter._

_4:13: My dad just came in and said the roads are awful, so I'm taking that last text back because it's not funny. Drive safe. See you soon. XOXOXOXOXO._

He jogged to the front door and rubbed his hands together for the warmth while he waited for someone to let him in.

"Thank God," Burt rolled his eyes and stepped aside to let Blaine in, "I was about to open the damn thing myself if you didn't get here soon."

"Where is it?" Blaine looked around, "Where is  _he_?"

"They're both at the kitchen table," Burt led the way, still grumbling, "He didn't even take it out of the mailbox. He just left it all out there, so I had to go back out and get it."

Blaine smiled at Kurt as soon as he was within sight. He sat perfectly straight in his chair; hands resting on his thighs, and his eyes glued to the big white envelope. Carole and Finn were seated across from him, both watching him curiously.

Kurt's eyes snapped up to Blaine's as soon as he heard the familiar rustle of his coat, "Finally."

"I could have sped here and risked hospitalization for wrapping my car around a tree," Blaine pulled his jacket off and hung it over the back of the chair beside Kurt before sitting down.

"Well thank you for making it here all in one piece," Kurt's eyes flitted back to the envelope.

"Dude, why don't you just do it?" Finn talked around a mouthful of sugar cookie, "Waiting won't change whatever it says."

"I know that, Finn," Kurt snapped, but he made no move to even pick it up from the table.

"Kurt, I am a patient man," Burt folded his arms across his chest, "I have sat through a million of your musicals, listened to you talk about all your organic crap, and I've even let you take me shopping, but  _this_ is ridiculous. If you don't open it, I'm going to burn it."

"No!" Kurt threw his arms over the paper defensively; his eyes wide.

"You said you'd do it once Blaine was here, honey," Carol motioned a hand toward Blaine, "You're going to give yourself ulcers if you keep fretting over this thing."

"Fine, fine," Kurt sat up straighter but then glared around at them all, "Everyone out."

"What?" Finn looked at him incredulously.

"You heard me;" Kurt waved his hands in the air frantically, "Out, out, out!"

Blaine met Carol's eyes and shrugged as he got to his feet.

Kurt caught a hold of his wrist and glowered at him, "Not you! I just waited two hours for you to show up so I could do this, why would you leave?"

"Because you said ev—" Finn looked at the icy glare Kurt was giving him and quickly shut his mouth.

Blaine waved and smiled apologetically as the other three filed upstairs before turning his attention back to Kurt, "Well?"

Kurt blew out a long breath; rubbed his hands up and down his thighs, "Yeah, okay…"

"Go on," Blaine motioned a hand at the table.

Kurt clasped his hands at his chest and chewed at his lip.

"Why don't you pick it up," Blaine prompted, "That's a start."

"Right," Kurt reached out and lifted the envelope slowly; traced his thumb over the return address.

"Now slide your finger under the—"

"Lets sit on the floor." Kurt cut him off quickly.

"What? Why?" Blaine frowned. Even by Kurt's standards, this was getting ridiculous.

"I don't know! Because I feel like I need to be closer to the ground right now!" Kurt met Blaine's amused smile with a glower, "Don't judge me, I'm freaking out!"

"Okay, okay," Blaine pushed his chair out and sat down on the carpet beside the table.

Kurt sat down across from him; the envelope in his lap.

"Better?" Blaine was starting to get tired of the theatrics; he contemplated throwing out his own threats of refusing sexual favors…

"Yes," Kurt traced his fingers around the seams of the envelope.

"Kurt, just—"

"You have to do it." Kurt suddenly thrust the thing toward Blaine.

"What?" Blaine blinked at it in surprise.

"I opened your NYU acceptance letter for you," Kurt looked at him over the top of the big square of paper, "It's only right."

Blaine smiled and took the envelope from Kurt's grasp. He slipped his thumb under the flap and looked back up at Kurt who was watching his hands with strained intensity, "Ready?"

Kurt covered his eyes, "Just do it."

Blaine slid his thumb along the seam and pulled out the sheet inside. He scanned over it slowly.

"Well?" Kurt peaked out from behind his fingers, "Did they ask me why I even bothered applying? Did they put me on a fashion blacklist? How bad is it? You can tell me; I… I can take it."

Blaine put the letter aside and stared solemnly at Kurt, "My only regret is—"

Kurt moaned and flopped sideways onto the carpet, but Blaine was still talking.

"—that this is the beginning of me having to share you with thousands of adoring fans."

"Wait, what?" Kurt lifted himself on an elbow to look at Blaine again.

"You know, once you're, like, the world's most famous fashion designer and—"

"I got the job?" Kurt asked breathlessly. He sat up straight and stared wide eyed at Blaine.

"Kurt," Blaine laughed, "I think it's pretty—"

Kurt snapped forward and grabbed a hold of Blaine's shoulders, "Blaine Michael Anderson, this is no time for cutesy teasing, I need straight answers here."

Blaine laughed again, "Look and see for yourself."

Kurt stared at the paper when Blaine held it up, his mouth held in a disbelieving 'oh' as his eyes scanned the letter. His voice came out as a near whisper, "I got the job."

"You got the job." Blaine agreed.

"I got the job! Blaine, I got the job!" Kurt shouted and threw his arms around Blaine's neck.

Blaine laughed and hugged him back tight, "You're going to New York!"

Kurt sat back far enough in Blaine's embrace to grin at him, " _We_ are going to New York, Blaine! Because you're brilliant and amazing and you're going to NYU and I'm fabulous and freakishly lucky and I just scored the best thing I could ever ask for!"

Blaine rubbed his hands over Kurt's back and smiled, "Luck has nothing to do with it, you earned this thing, Kurt. You deserve it more than anyone else ever possibly could. I'm so proud of you."

"Say what you want, I am the luckiest person on the planet," Kurt sniffled when happy tears found their way down his cheeks, but he made no attempt to brush them away. He clasped his hands on either side of Blaine's face and pressed a kiss to his mouth. He pressed sloppy kisses all over his face and laughed.

Blaine pulled Kurt to his feet and they both let out another happy whoop of sound; hugging one another over and over again as they held the letter between them and read it again.

"I take it it's good news?" Burt called from somewhere upstairs.

" _Start spreading the news_ ," Kurt belted out, " _I'm leaving today; I want to be apart of it—_ "

" _New York, New York_!" They sang together; spun one another in drunken circles; belted out every other song about the city they could think of.

When they finally settled down—their throats sore and everyone exhausted of their theatrics, Kurt curled into Blaine's side on the couch, the letter held out in front of him again even though he was sure he could recite the entire thing from memory by now.

"You need to send in an acceptance letter," Blaine had draped the other things that had been nested in the envelope across the armrest of the couch, "Probably wouldn't hurt to call and personally thank some people too; never too early to start making a good impression."

"We're actually going to  _live_ there, Blaine," Kurt whispered; giggled, "Like, we can go to Fifth Ave and shop and we can see Broadway shows and we can go out to dinner at all of those amazing restaurant and—well, we won't be able to afford any of that, but we'll be there and it'll be real, and, and—I just can't believe it's real."

"Start believing," Blaine laughed; pressed a kiss to the top of his head, "it all starts now."

 

* * *

Blaine stared at him; tears still finding their way down his face; getting caught on his chin, but he didn't look sad—he was confused, his eyes searched Kurt's face; tried to make sense of his words, "What?"

 

Kurt swallowed, but his mouth was dry; his tongue felt too big or too something and didn't want to work properly, but he stammered out a response, "I—I quit the internship, and I talked t-to Rachel and—"

"What the hell were you thinking?" Blaine's voice was breathless, his eyes—already looking so big in his face—were wide, and Kurt could see him still struggling to catch up; make sense of what he was being told.

"I couldn't go and leave you, I—"

Blaine was staring down at the carpet; sorting through his thoughts when flicker of understanding crossed his face and something else—something intense—started boiling behind his eyes; his tone was dangerous, "When did you quit?"

"Yesterday morning," Kurt whispered. He hated the look on Blaine's face—furious betrayal that only looked all the more hurt at Kurt's words.

"You knew," There was nothing icy about Blaine's fury—it was hot and burned bright behind his eyes as he turned his glare between Kurt and his parents, "You all knew before any of this—before the doctors appointment—"

Elizabeth looked near tears, "Blaine, baby, we wanted to—"

"How long?" Blaine cut her off sharply, and, when she hesitated, he shouted it again, "How long?"

John answered for her, his tone quiet; subdued, "We talked about it your fourth night in the hospital."

Blaine's shoulders tensed as though the words were a physical blow; his jaw was set tight for a second before he spoke again, "You were never even going to give me the chance."

"Honey, please, we were only trying to—"

"To what?" Blaine snapped; he was suddenly on his feet, glaring down at them, "To make me feel like I was even less in control of my life than I already do? When the fuck were you planning on telling me?"

Kurt stood slowly and touched a nervous hand to Blaine's arm, "Blaine, they were going to tell you, but—"

"You knew, and you didn't tell me. You let me go on and on about living in the city and the things we were going to do, and you didn't say a word!" Blaine threw his arms in the air, and for the briefest moment, Kurt was sure he was going to hit him. He flinched involuntarily and stumbled back a step.

Blaine's eyes clouded with another momentary fog of confusion over Kurt's sudden retreat. He looked between his hands and the space between them, and Kurt was sure he could feel his heart breaking— _shattering_ —in his chest over the complete hurt on Blaine's face in that moment, "You—you actually think I'd hit you? …You honestly think I'm that far gone?"

Kurt recovered the lost couple of steps quickly, but it was too late. The damage was done, "It's not you, Blaine, it's the tumor; I know you wouldn't ever, but…"

"Why is that all I am to anyone any more?" He looked around at them; his expression still torn between anger and despair, "Why is that always the precursor to every time any of you decide to so much as look at me? I'm not blind—it's all over your faces. Blaine's sick; Blaine might yell; Blaine might forget something; Blaine might fucking drop dead at any given second."

"No, honey, no one thinks that!" Elizabeth was crying, too, now. She shook her head hard.

"You do too!" Blaine shouted, "You treat me like I can't decide anything for myself; you act like I don't deserve to even be consulted about my own life—"

He closed his eyes hard; searched for the words. The worst Kurt had ever felt when Blaine lost a word was when he couldn't come up with the word 'water' after he'd been sick from the chemo; this was worse than that. There was so much hurt he couldn't express; so many things he wanted so desperately to say and all he could do was close his eyes and hope the words would come. When they finally did; his voice was choked with a barely confined sob, "I'm still here—I'm still me, but I feel like I might as well already be dead."

He looked at Kurt through fresh tears that clung to his eyelashes and left tracks down his cheeks that Kurt wanted desperately to kiss away, "I asked you yesterday what was wrong, and you lied to me. All I wanted to do was be there for you, and you fucking lied to me over and over again."

"I'm so sorry, Blaine," Kurt sniffled hard; the tears made their way all the way down his neck; he could feel them catching on the collar of his shirt. They had fought over a lot of things in their relationship—Blaine's sloppiness and promiscuity when he drank; Kurt's self-centeredness; their clashing sense of what was appropriate in terms of PDA. But there had always been the understanding that they would not lie to each other—it was never argued over; never even really a topic for conversation, "So incredibly sorry."

"Blaine, sweetheart—" Elizabeth stood, her tears were making her mascara run—black, muddied puddles formed around her eyes and she wiped at them forcefully as she tried to gather herself.

"Elizabeth, come on," John stood and put a gentle hand on the small of her back, "Give them some privacy, we can all talk later."

Kurt didn't watch them go; his eyes were glued to his shoes in shame. Well intentioned or not, he'd broken a cornerstone of his relationship with Blaine—a piece that stretched back to the very first time they'd ever sat down for coffee in the Dalton commons. They were always honest with one another. Always.

"I want you to take the internship back. I want you to go to the city without me."

Kurt snapped his head up and met Blaine's angry eyes, "What?"

"You heard me," Blaine shouted, "I don't want you to stay here!"

"You don't mean that." Kurt whispered—there was so much volume behind Blaine's voice, but he could find none for his own.

"Yes I do!" Blaine was suddenly right in front of him and Kurt let out a yelp of surprise when Blaine's hands were suddenly on his face; his fingers pressing hard into his temples, "I don't have a fucking choice in this, but you do. Go to the city."

"No," Kurt whispered; tried to shake his head beneath Blaine's hands.

"Kurt, go to the fucking city!" Blaine's fingers pressed even harder into the sides of his face and his voice was so loud it made Kurt startle, but it also woke something up in him.

He latched his hands hard over Blaine's wrists and shouted back, "If I have a fucking choice then why are you telling me what to do?"

"Because I am not going to be the reason for you to look like you do right now. I don't want to watch you catch this cancer, too." Blaine snarled back.

"Cancer isn't contagious." Kurt snapped.

"That's a fucking lie—you are as infected with this thing as I am," Blaine's fingers relaxed a little, but his eyes never left Kurt's, "Maybe you've given up on me not being eaten alive, but I have not given up on you yet. If you stay here, this thing will drown you. If you stay here, eventually you are going to hate me for ruining your life. I can take the lying and the secrets and the goddamn pity, but I cannot take the idea of you coming to resent me because you feel obligated to—"

"Shut up!" Kurt startled himself with the sudden shout as much as he did Blaine, "An obligation? You think I quit my dream job out of  _obligation_? When have you and I ever been that to one another? You have absolutely no right to stand there and accuse me of treating you differently over all of this and then throw that sort of accusation in my face. I thought you of all people would understand I did this as much for me as I did for you. I can't go to New York and live out my dream because  _you_  were a part of that dream. You're angry right now, and I understand that and I shouldn't have lied, but don't you dare act like I could ever love you any less. Don't you fucking dare even  _think_  that. And then to say, after I tell you I gave up my job to stay in Ohio, I was giving up on you? I don't think I even need to explain how many things are wrong with that statement. I might be a liar, but I have never underestimated you so much as you just did me."

When he finished speaking, he was breathing hard and he realized his hold was so tight on Blaine's wrists it was turning his knuckles white. He let go quickly and took a step back. That's all it was meant to be—a step back to put just a little distance between them…Maybe it was because Blaine had echoed exactly what his father had said, maybe it was because he was sleep deprived and exhausted, maybe it was because he was furious with himself for actually hearing some small voices in the recesses of his mind whispering he was already tired of this—of this shouting and this ugliness and it was only going to get worse… maybe it was the way Blaine was looking at him-foggy and intense at the same time and so utterly not Blaine... whatever the reason, those two little steps suddenly had him walking out of the room and then out of the house, the door banging shut behind him with finality. When he looked out toward the front path, his mood only worsened.

"What's the matter, Hummel? Did Blaine puke on your Etro's?" Trip looked him over with a smirk.

Any other day, Kurt could have ignored the comment; breezed past Trip and been in his car without much more than a quick bitch glare, but not then; not after Blaine; not after everything, "Do not fucking push me, Morgan; I am not in the mood."

"Hmm, sounds like a lover's quarrel," A slight raise of his eyebrows accompanied Trip's normal smug expression, "Did Prince Charming forget to commemorate the anniversary of your first fateful meeting in the hall at Dalton or something?"

"Prince charming spent three hours in the bathroom last Wednesday puking his guts out while I watched. I gave up my dream life in the city to stay with him in fucking Ohio. He forgets what he ate for lunch forty percent of the time and half the time he does remember, he can't come up with the word for it," Kurt snarled, "Don't you dare presume we live in some sort of perfect fairytale world of our own. You don't know a single thing about me or my relationship with him—you do not get to walk in here and act like you know us."

Trip, for once, didn't smile; he didn't even glare. He watched Kurt with something akin to wonder.

Kurt didn't wait to see if Trip was going to recover. He shoved past him and made his way down the steps. On a last second whim, he turned and fixed Trip with one last frosty glare, "And it wasn't the middle of the hallway. It was the staircase."

Trip caught him by the arm just as he moved down the last step of the porch, "Hey, slow up."

Kurt turned to scowl at him, "Let go."

"Come on, don't be like that," Trip took a step down so they were eye level, "what happened?"

"I never said anything happened," He tried to tear his arm free from Trip's hand again, but his grip remained firm.

"Kurt, you're crying and storming out of the house," Trip raised an eyebrow, "If nothing happened, this is a little dramatic even by your standards."

"What the hell do you know about my level of drama?" Kurt snapped, "Why do you even care?"

Trip looked down toward his shoes; he bit on the ring in his lip before giving Kurt an irritated look, "I just do, all right?"

Kurt stopped struggling, but the rage was still burning in his chest; heating his cheeks and making all his nerves feel overly sensitive. He fixed Trip with his nastiest look, but Trip only stared back at him with that same confused frown.

"Come on," Trip motioned his free hand toward the porch, "Bitch it out at me."

Kurt realized his arm had been freed from Trip's hold, but still he stood hesitantly on the first step.

Trip didn't seem to mind his indecision. He seated himself on the porch swing and pulled a cigarette from his pocket. He stuck it between his lips, lit it, and took a long drag. He met Kurt's eyes again as he let the cloud of smoke out his nose.

"My entire life with him has been a series of accidents," Kurt was surprised by the sound of his own voice, but once it had started flowing, it wouldn't stop. He paced the porch and poured out everything—not just the fight. He told him about how he met Blaine on the staircase; about Jeremiah; about Rachel's disastrous party; about Pavarotti dying; about Blaine falling in the parking lot. Details and infuriating moments and utter despair all the way up until he'd nearly crashed into Trip trying to escape the house.

When he finished, his mouth was dry and his throat was sore; he felt strangely cleansed. He hadn't looked at Trip much through his speech; when he had stolen an occasional glance, Trip had been staring back at him lazily or staring down at the floorboards. Now that Kurt was finally silent, he was looking out over the front yard; the heel of one shoe pushing him back and forth a little on the swing.

Kurt leaned against the railing across from him and waited, listening to the creek of the swing and the neighbors a few houses down unloading groceries from their car.

After what felt like an eternity, Trip flicked the butt of his cigarette out over the rail and let out a long sigh, "Well, shit, Hummel. You're even stupider than I originally had you pegged for."

Kurt gaped at him for a second before snapping his mouth shut and pushing himself more upright; fury igniting in his veins once more, "Well thanks for listening to all of that just to make me feel even shittier."

Trip groaned when Kurt made to leave, "God dammit, could you stop being such a fucking sissy pansy ass and let me explain myself?"

Kurt pivoted around to glower at him, "Oh, please, Trip, do tell me your take on things. You always have the most insightful comments."

"The kid fucking adores you, all right?" Trip snapped; his expression relaxed just a little as he added, "And you love him too, right?"

"Of course I do," Kurt snapped; folding his arms across his chest. But then his expression fell; a tinge of guilt twisted in his stomach, "And I know he didn't mean any of what he said."

"Who the fuck cares," Trip rolled his eyes, "Him tearing you a new one is not the reason you were doing your little bitch storm out."

"Enlighten me, then, as to why I'm acting this way," Kurt felt his fingers curl into a fist almost involuntarily. It had been a long time since he'd ever really wanted to hit somebody, and he wasn't even entirely sure why he was so angry.

"Because, like you said, you and Blaine are one big fucked up accident," Trip's eyes met his; flickered with some sort of dark understanding, "If he can come into your life that fast, who's to say he won't get ripped right out of it again? You hate that you can't be angry at him and dump his sorry ass when he goes all Mr. Hyde on you. You hate that shit doesn't ever go your way, so who's to say this will? You hate the you're so fucking trapped in him."

"I am  _not_ trapped in Blaine," Kurt took an angry step toward Trip, though he wasn't entirely sure what he hoped to accomplish with the motion, "I chose to quit my internship. I chose to stay with him. I love him."

"Love  _is_  the trap," Trip broke his gaze and scowled out at the yard, "People thread themselves into you until they're so fucking sewed in that there is not a damn chance that if they break or try to get out that you won't tear right down the fucking middle."

Kurt opened and then closed his mouth. Trip was still scowling, but the bitterness in his voice was what held Kurt still... So this was the Trip that Blaine saw. He moved forward and sat down quietly on the other end of the swing, "Is that why you came to Ohio? Because someone hurt you?"

Trip snorted, "Oh, please, Kurt, grow up."

Kurt waited, but Trip added nothing more, "So why are you here?"

"We're talking about you here, Hummel, not me," Trip snapped. He got to his feet and patted his pockets, most likely in search of another cigarette, "Jesus, if I thought I was going to get put on your fucking sob story therapy couch, I would have just let you skip out of here."

Kurt watched him as he lit the second cigarette, "…thank you for doing it. For listening."

"Yeah, well," Trip turned his back to him and leaned on the railing, "it's been great hearing your entire fucking life story. Real inspirational shit in there, Hummel."

Kurt didn't try to protest. He stood silently beside him at the rail and stared down into the flowerbeds. He appraised Trip out of the corner of his eye as he tapped ash down into the roses, "Those things are going to kill you."

Trip turned his head and blew smoke in Kurt's direction, "I thought you were leaving."

Kurt looked out toward his car in the driveway, "I was…"

"But now you're going to stay and keep me and the three faces of Blaine company?" Trip quirked an eyebrow at him.

"You don't even seem like you like him," Kurt turned to face him more fully.

"Yeah, well, Blaine can be a real fucking piece of work, can't he?" Trip smirked, "You like him a whole lot and look at the dramatic exit you just tried to pull."

"If you don't like him, why do you hang around?" Kurt looked at him in genuine wonder.

Trip looked over what was left of his cigarette before dropping it to the ground and grinding it out with his shoe, "I never said I didn't like him, you did."

"But—"

"I'm going in; if you have more bitching to do it's going to have to be to an empty yard." Trip turned toward the door.

"No, I'm coming," Kurt wiped at his cheeks and smoothed his shirt. He rolled his eyes when Trip made a show of holding the door open for him with a low bow.

The second the door clicked shut Kurt could hear the piano. He stood still and listened to the soft chords threading their way through the house.

Trip gave him a little push in the small of his back toward the family room. Wordlessly, they crept forward until they were in the room; the whole place filled with the sound. Trip moved forward and sat down on the couch, but Blaine didn't seem to notice their presence; his hands kept tapping out song after song, just enough of a melody for Kurt to put a name to it and then he was switching to another. Kurt passed Trip on the couch and moved to stand just behind Blaine.

Blaine stopped playing for a moment; his fingers ghosting the keys, and then he was tapping out another song; something Kurt didn't recognize.

_Oh my God this hurts like hell_

_I had that dream again_

_Where I was lost for good in outer space_

_Tell me doctor how to shake_

_A waking nightmare_

_That is only worse when I am sleeping_

_Kill the messenger_

_I swear it's not me_

_It's just someone I used to know…_

Kurt couldn't remember the last time he'd heard Blaine sing… that was a lie, yes he could, it had been graduation. He slipped onto the bench next to him, but Blaine's voice was quiet now; his fingers still finding the song as they slipped over the keys, but then even that stopped. He traced a finger over an ivory colored key; his voice came out as a near whisper, "I thought you left."

"I didn't." Kurt replied just as quietly. A long pause sat between them before Kurt ventured to speak again, "I haven't heard you sing in a long time."

Blaine met Kurt's eyes; searched them, but for what Kurt wasn't sure. He let out a long breath and wrapped an arm around Kurt's back, "Come here."

Kurt leaned in close to Blaine; rested his head on his shoulder, and then he felt fresh tears stinging his eyes again. They were not the hot, angry ones from before; they were relieved—Blaine's voice was gentle; his arm tight around his middle in the way it had always been, "I'm sorry I lied, I never meant—"

Kurt could feel Blaine shaking his head; his arm squeezed tighter around him, "You have no reason to apologize. It should be… me. It should be me saying I'm sorry. I should be apologizing to you a thousand times over."

"You couldn't help it," Kurt sniffled; nuzzled his face in closer to Blaine's neck.

"It wasn't even you I was angry with…I was angry with myself… I should have know I wasn't going, but it just… to have it said out loud…and then when you said you were staying…" Blaine let out a long sigh; his tone guilty, "I was so relieved that I got to keep you, and I was so angry with myself for being glad you weren't going and…I snapped, and I shouldn't have, and I'm sorry."

"I should have told you sooner," Kurt breathed in the clean smell of Blaine's cologne; tried to steady his breathing.

"Oh my God," Trip groaned. He pushed himself up off the couch and disappeared through the doorway without explanation.

Kurt and Blaine were silent for a long minute. Kurt traced a finger along the soft outline of Blaine's spine; his eyesight was full of kelly green. He sniffled, "I hate this shirt."

Blaine let out a short breath through his nose—a sad attempt at a laugh. He twisted sideways; kicked a leg over the other side of the bench, and wrapped both arms around Kurt. Kurt tried to return the hug, but Blaine shook his head; hugged him even closer, "Just let me hold you for a little while."

"I can do that," Kurt whispered; melted in closer to Blaine's chest.

Blaine's fingers traced down his back; followed the soft arc of one of his ribs, "You've lost weight."

"Look who's talking," Kurt murmured back. His eyes were heavy; he was exhausted.

"I'm on chemotherapy," Blaine returned.

"My boyfriend has cancer; I'm stressed," Kurt fought to stifle a yawn.

Blaine rested his chin on Kurt's head, "We'll both just have to do better from now on."

"Mm…go out for a…" Kurt yawned; nested in closer to Blaine, "…steak dinner when everyone leaves us behind."

Blaine smiled and gently pushed Kurt upright, "Go sit on the couch, you're about to pass out."

"I'm fine," Kurt rubbed his eyes with one hand.

"You won't be if you wake up with a stiff back," Blaine pushed at him again, "Go on."

"'M not even that tired," Kurt insisted, but he tangled his fingers between Blaine's and dragged him along toward the couch. Once they were seated, Kurt curled into Blaine's side, nested his feet in his lap, and dropped his head back to his shoulder.

"Better, right?" Blaine wrapped an arm back around Kurt; savored the warmth of his breath against his neck.

"Mhm."

Blaine listened to his breathing, already getting slower, "I love you."

"Love you, too," Kurt mumbled.

By the time Trip came back in, chewing on one of Carol's cookies, Kurt was fast asleep.

"You took my spot," Trip made a face, but sat down at the far end of the couch anyway. He looked at Kurt and raised an eyebrow, "Did you drug him?"

Blaine rubbed his hand up and down Kurt's side absently, "He's exhausted… I exhaust him."

"You exhaust everybody, tumor or no tumor," Trip took another bite of his cookie and motioned a hand toward the doorway, "Your parents are taking cover in the kitchen. They weren't too plussed about me crashing their party… no idea why, but your grandma doesn't seem to like me much."

"Yeah, mystery to me, too," Blaine rolled his eyes but then sighed, his voice hushed to avoid waking Kurt, "I need to talk to them later... Apologize or something."

Trip shrugged, "You have like the best built in excuse ever, 'Sorry, Mom; sorry, Dad—tumor made me lose my shit and try to bite your heads off.' They'll forgive you anything."

"I guess so..." Kurt shifted against Blaine's side; sighed in his sleep. Blaine watched him until he was still again, "…how'd you get him to come back inside?"

"Who said I did anything?" Trip studied the rest of his cookie before popping it into his mouth.

"You guys were out there for forever."

"Maybe he was sitting out there when I got here and we walked in together." Trip shrugged, but when he noted Blaine's cynical expression, he added begrudgingly, "...He told me what happened—you two fighting, I mean."

"Well, whatever you did, thanks for doing it." Blaine nudged Trip's foot with his own.

"Whatever," Trip looked away and folded his arms across his chest. After a moment, he let out a long sigh, "It's a tough break, man; I can't believe after all that big shit talk about living in New York you're gonna be stuck in Ohio all year."

"Yeah, well; start believing," Blaine felt Kurt shift against him again; he pulled him in just a little closer; pressed a kiss to the top of his head, "It all starts now."


	19. Chapter 17

"Why do we have to go to you dad's shop?" Trip lifted a Buddha statue off of Kurt's shelf, "And I thought you were an atheist."

"For the millionth time: do. Not. Touch," Kurt snatched the figurine from his hands and replaced it on the shelf, "My car's there and my dad promised me his credit card weeks ago for a shopping trip. I'm not going to just let that offer slip through my fingers. Why does it matter if we go there or wait here?"

"I don't like parents," Trip shrugged.

"You don't even have to say anything to him," Kurt glanced over his shoulder at Trip as he made his way to his closet, "Actually, let me rephrase:  _please_ don't say anything to him."

"I thought your dad was the accepting parent or something," Trip lifted a picture of Kurt and Blaine from the nightstand and eyed it critically; he turned it for Kurt to see, "Prom King?"

"Queen," Kurt looked at him pointedly; daring him to make a joke.

Trip raised an eyebrow but offered no further comment on the matter.

"Give me two more minutes and we can go," Kurt picked through a hanger filled with scarves.

"Jesus Christ, Hummel, you've got a boyfriend who's ready to jump your bones at any given second, you don't need to primp anymore," Trip sat down on the edge of the bed and glared at the sun pouring in through the window, "And it's a thousand degrees out; you don't need a scarf."

"Pain is fashion," Kurt selected a canary yellow one from the tangle and wrapped it around his neck.

"No, pain is waiting for you to finish your five hour getting ready to go to the Lima mall routine," Trip huffed, " _Please_  lets go."

Kurt turned to look at himself in profile in the mirror, "…fine."

"Praise Jesus," Trip threw his arms out and tipped his head up toward the ceiling.

Kurt ignored him and moved toward the door.

"I don't have to stay with you two while we're there, right?" Trip chased after him down the stairs.

"Of course you're staying with us; I'm going to fix your pathetic excuse for a wardrobe." Kurt eyed Trip's passenger seat warily before climbing in.

"Maybe you've caught Blaine's brain tumor and you've forgotten, but they wear uniforms at Dalton." Trip lurched the car into the street and ignored Kurt's death glare when his head hit the back of the seat.

"Weekends and nights out with friends require something with a lot less polyester blend," Kurt wrinkled his nose; the whole car smelled like cigarette smoke.

"What if I don't want to go out with them?" Trip retorted.

"The Dalton guys are nice, Trip," Kurt turned the volume down on the radio, "And everyone needs friends."

"I don't want any friends," Trip turned the volume back up.

Kurt opened his mouth to respond, but Trip's face was dark and he decided not to push his luck.

They pulled into an open parking space outside the shop and Kurt climbed out gratefully, "I feel like I just sat in an ash tray."

Trip followed him into the front of the shop; sniffing Kurt's shoulder, "You still smell like the inside of a department store and fruit loops."

Kurt glared at him indignantly, fully prepared to defend his cologne, but the sound of yelling from the garage distracted him.

Trip raised an eyebrow, "Is that your dad?"

Kurt ignored the question and breezed past the front desk to go into the garage.

"—I dunno what the hell kind of nerve you have coming in here; you graduated, so I'm guessing you know how to read enough to figure out the name on the front of this shop—"

Burt Hummel was shouting animatedly—his arms up; his face red. And in front of him one David Karofsky was staring at his shoes in misery.

"Dad!" Kurt cut him off; there was no way that the kind of fury his father was working himself into was good for his health. Kurt tried to project as much calm as he could and hoped it might wear off on his dad, "What's going on?"

Burt stopped shouting and turned to look at Kurt, but his face remained set in a furious scowl; he thrust a finger toward Karofsky, "This kid popped a tire and got it in his head that this was the place to come to have it looked at."

Kurt looked to David who stated back at him miserably. David who had been trying to be better; David who had left five crumpled dollar bills on the counter of a bakery for Kurt only a couple weeks earlier, "Well… this  _is_  an auto shop, right?"

"You cannot be serious, Kurt," Burt stared at Kurt in disbelief, "I know you're a nice kid, but this is ridiculous. This guy—"

"Made a lot of mistakes and has been trying to be a better person," Kurt cut in smoothly, but then added quietly, "…it's just a tire; it'll be a quick fix, and it could be dangerous if he tries to drive it somewhere else to get it dealt with."

"You are just like your mother sometimes, I swear..." Burt turned to glare at David again; a tense lull of silence loomed over them, "…Fine."

Karofsky looked up at him in surprise, but Burt was looking back at his son.

"If you're so set on us doing this, then you can be the one to fix it." Burt wiped his hands on a rag and moved toward the door leading back to the front of the shop.

"Dad," Kurt whined, "I just got dressed for the mall."

"Well then consider this your way to get two things you want," Burt called over his shoulder, "His tire fixed and my credit card in your pocket."

Kurt let out an indignant grunt before stalking over to Karofsky's truck. He folded his arm across his chest and glowered at the flat before turning his gaze back to Karofsky, "Do you know how to change a tire?"

"Um, yeah… I just didn't have a spare and—"

"You're going to change it; I'll supervise." Kurt kicked the tire gingerly with the toe of one shoe.

"I have to pay for service work that I'm doing for myself?" Karofsky looked at him distastefully.

"Would you rather I ask my dad to come back in here and change it?" Kurt rested a hand on his hip, "Or I could tell him you're giving me a hard time. Your pick."

David hurried to Kurt's side and set to work.

Kurt watched him silently as he worked until Trip sidled over to stand beside him.

"You're turning the wrench the wrong way," Trip smirked when David struggled with replacing one of the nuts on the new tire.

Karofsky's eyes flitted up from the tire and over to Trip, "Who are you?"

"Kurt's man on the side," Trip clapped Kurt on the ass with a wink.

Kurt jumped at the sudden contact and responded with a hard elbow in Trip's side, "He is not; he's Blaine pet. His name's Trip. Trip, this is Karofsky."

"David," Karofsky corrected. He didn't stand, but he offered a hand.

Trip studied it for a moment before shifting his gaze back to David's face, "Call me new aged, but since you're already on your knees, I'd rather skip the hand shaking and go straight for the blowjob."

Karofsky fell back against the car and then lurched awkwardly to his feet; his eyes wide.

Kurt groaned, "Oh my God, Trip, just go play with the brake belts or something until Blaine gets here."

"Why? I'm trying to make friends here, Kurt; you  _did_  say you thought I needed friends," That slow smile played out across Trip's mouth as he turned back toward Karofsky, "I can tell we're bonding, can't you, David?"

"I—I um…" Karofsky swallowed hard; his cheeks nearly as red as his old letterman jacket.

"What's the matter? Have I flustered you?" Trip raised an eyebrow innocently.

Suddenly, Karofsky seemed to find whatever fury he used as his base in high school because he straightened up and took a step in closer to Trip than was really necessary. He scowled down at him, "Watch your damn mouth."

"I'd rather watch yours." Trip's eyes flitted down to Karofsky's lips and then back to his eyes.

"Listen," Karofsky hissed, leaning in closer to Trip's face, "I don't need shit from some punk ass kid that just wandered in here from Fucksville, Nowhere—"

"—I'm from Maryland." Trip supplied.

"Wha—" Karofsky shook his head and tried to regain his hold on the conversation; he thrust a finger at Trip's chest, "I don't care where the hell you're from, just make sure to stay out of my w—"

Suddenly Trip stood on tiptoe, grabbed David by the face, and pressed a kiss to his mouth.

Kurt let out an initial yelp of surprise, but then he didn't know what was more shocking—Trip's brashness or the fact that Karofsky didn't pull away immediately.

The initial shock of the contact seemed to suddenly wear off and Karofsky shoved hard at Trip. Despite having been the one doing the pushing, it was David that stumbled back a few paces. He stared at Trip with wide eyes; a mixture of shock and fury battling for control of his face.

Trip, once again, closed the space between them with a few slow steps. He reached up casually and wiped a thumb over the corner of Karofsky's mouth, "You could use some practice, but you're not too shabby."

David slapped Trip's hand away and put nearly the entire length of the garage between them just as Blaine stepped through the door from the front lobby, "You stay the fuck away, do you hear me?"

He turned to storm out, but then jumped when he noted Blaine in the door looking between him and the others with confusion. Karofsky nodded awkwardly at him before ducking his head and brushing past Blaine and out of sight.

Blaine crossed the garage, glancing over his shoulder the whole way at the door David hadn't bothered to shut.

Trip leaned his back into the pickup truck behind him and smiled at Kurt, "Did you hear him say something a minute ago? My hearing's not always the best."

"What happened?" Blaine frowned at both of them as he sank down into the chair beside Kurt.

"He… he just kissed David Karofsky." Kurt blinked in amazement at Trip.

Blaine's eyes went wide and he gaped at Trip as though he couldn't quite process the news, "You just—I mean—how—why did you do that?"

"He's gay, isn't he?" Trip shrugged as though forcing himself on a complete stranger were the most natural thing in the world.

"He's still in the closet, Trip." Kurt looked toward the open door again.

"Well from what I've heard he's a fan of forcing kisses on the unwilling, so I thought he might enjoy trying it out in reverse."

Kurt snapped his head around to face Trip again, but Trip was busy eyeing David's flat tire. Blaine was looking up at him, but Kurt ignored his questioning gaze, "I, um, I forgot you knew about that."

"I know the whole autobiography of Kurt Hummel," Trip crouched down and lifted the wrench from where it lay abandoned.

Kurt, for once, didn't roll his eyes. He was too busy contemplating the kiss, "I never told yo his name, so how'd you know it was him?"

"For Christ's sake, Hummel, I didn't do that to give you some sort of fucking full circle moment," Trip worked at tightening one of the nuts; his movements quick and assured.

Kurt felt a light blush touch his cheeks, "So why'd you do it?"

"Why not?" Trip winked and bit his lip ring once; clicking it between his teeth in the way he knew made Kurt flinch. He set to work on lowering the jack, "Guy really can't kiss worth a damn though. You'd think a fucked up closet case like him that's running around forcing his tongue down the throats of other kids in locker rooms would be hitting up a few prostitutes from time to time to take the edge off."

"He didn't shove his tongue down my throat," Kurt snapped.

Trip straightened up from underneath the hood of the car, "Sorry, didn't realize you enjoyed kissing him."

"Not funny, Trip." Blaine snapped; a protective hand brushing over Kurt's

Trip looked at him in mild surprise. Blaine rarely did worse than gently scold him for his crudeness, but this time he was full on glowering. He rolled his eyes, "All right, fine; no need to get touchy, kids."

"Unbelievable," Kurt murmured under his breath. He watched Trip wipe his hands on an abandoned towel before turning his attention to Blaine, "You look miserable; I thought your mom was taking you to some sort of alternative therapy place."

Blaine grimaced, "She did, and would you like to guess what kind of alternative therapy they tried to do on me?"

Kurt shrugged, "Realigning your energies?"

"Acupuncture. My mother tried to send  _me_ to an acupuncturist."

"Oh God," Kurt tried to stifle a laugh, "How was it?"

Blaine gave him a baffled look, "You honestly think I would let them stick my body full of giant needles?"

"I've heard it's not painful or anyth—"

"GIANT needles, Kurt!" Blaine waved his hands in the air.

"Right, okay, I forgot who I was talking to," Kurt smiled apologetically, "So the trip was pointless?"

"All I got out of it was a tension headache and a lot of weirded out looks from the staff," Blaine shrugged.

Kurt touched a quick kiss to his cheek, "We'll engage in some retail therapy, and you'll feel much better."

"You two make me want to throw up," Trip threw the towel back down on a shelf, "Can we go and get this over with?"

"Why does he hang out with us if it's such a chore?" Kurt muttered as they followed Trip back toward the door.

"He likes to complain," Blaine smiled; shrugged.

Elizabeth was standing in the lobby talking to Burt, her arms folded tight across her chest.

"Tire's changed; he'll be in to pick it up, um… later." Kurt was careful not to meet Burt's eyes.

"He couldn't just take it with him? He paid already," Burt narrowed his eyes as he looked at Kurt, "How's he going to get home?"

"I guess he…walked?" Kurt decided it was time to change the subject before he wound up explaining Trip kissing David for the entire world to see, "Any chance I can get that credit card now?"

Burt looked at him begrudgingly before fishing his wallet out of his pocket, "You know the rules."

Kurt bobbed his head up and down quickly as he snatched the card from between his father's fingers.

Burt glanced at Trip doing his best to go unnoticed near the door, "Who's this?"

"This is Trip Morgan; he's starting at Dalton in the fall," Kurt tried to give Trip a look that said ' _don't you fucking dare try to pull anything.'_

Trip apparently got at least part of the message because he only nodded in greeting.

Elizabeth's attention was focused on Blaine, "Honey, are you sure you feel up to doing this right now? You looked positively ill in the car."

"I'm fine," Blaine insisted, "I was just a little traumatized."

Elizabeth turned to smile at Burt, "Does your son have the knack for drama that mine does?"

"Where do you think your kid got it?" Burt snorted.

"I'm standing right here," Kurt glared at his father.

"Can we please go now?" Blaine looked pleadingly at his mother.

Elizabeth sighed and stuck a hand in her purse before producing an orange, plastic bottle, "Remember to take it with—"

"Lots of water, I know," Blaine grumbled. He handed the bottle off to Kurt to drop in his messenger bag.

Elizabeth stuck her hand in her purse again, this time producing a neatly folded fifty-dollar bill, "Be good."

Blaine looked at her extended hand and then met her eyes, "You really don't have to—"

Elizabeth took his hand in hers and folded the money into it. She touched a kiss to his forehead, "Go have fun."

"Thanks, Mom," Blaine smiled, pecked her on the cheek, and turned toward the door.

Elizabeth stopped Kurt short as he followed after Blaine and Trip, "He forgets about the pill sometimes; he says he doesn't, but he does, could you—"

"Of course, Mrs. Anderson," Kurt patted his bag, "At two; I remember."

She smiled at him; squeezed his arm again, "Call me Elizabeth, Kurt."

"Elizabeth," He repeated; smiled.

When he made it outside, the boys were already in the car—Trip in the front seat and Blaine in the back.

"Dogs ride in the back; my boyfriend rides up front," Kurt turned the keys over in the ignition, but left the car in park as he fixed Trip with an icy look.

Trip grinned, "Whoever calls shotgun gets to ride up front."

"I lost the word," Blaine sighed dejectedly from behind them.

Kurt gaped at Trip, "You're honestly going to take—Oh my God, never mind."

Trip set to work flipping through Kurt's CDs as they pulled out onto the road. He pushed one into the player and turned up the volume.

Kurt looked at him in surprise, "Katy Perry?"

"Consider it my way of making it up to Blaine that he has to ride in the backseat." Trip kicked his feet up onto the dash.

"Feet down," Kurt snapped; waving an arm wildly at Trip's legs, "I just got the interior detailed."

"You and fucking cars," Trip shook his head, "You're a weird guy, Hummel."

"Excuse me, but I'm not the one that just forced himself on a random guy," Kurt replied pointedly.

"He's not the first, right Blaine?" Trip turned to wink at Blaine.

Kurt cranked his head around to stare at Blaine, "What?"

"Jesus, Hummel, watch the road!" Trip snapped.

Kurt turned to face forward again, but he glared at Blaine in the rearview mirror, "Explain. Now."

"He, um, he kissed me in front of my grandma a couple days before they went home," Blaine blushed, "I forgot."

"You—" Kurt shook his head, "Why am I not at all surprised?"

"Please don't be mad," Blaine met his gaze in the mirror.

Kurt let out a disgruntled sigh, "I'm not mad at  _you._ Trip, on the other hand, is already walking a very thin line between my good and bad list."

"You don't want to be on the bad list," Blaine informed Trip quickly.

"It was nothing personal," Trip flipped through the track on the CD idly, "You can have a free one, too, if it makes you feel any better."

"No!" Kurt and Blaine spoke at the same time.

Trip laughed and sat back in his seat.

When they pulled into the parking lot, Kurt fixed Trip with a stern look, "Do  _not_  wander off. I have plans for you."

"Did you change your mind about—"

"Stop talking," Kurt twisted around to look at Blaine who had fallen quiet in the backseat, "Are you all right?"

"Yeah, fine," Blaine forced a smile, "Headache."

"Do you want to go home?" Kurt reached back to squeeze his knee.

"No, it's fine; it'll go away," Blaine climbed out of the car and pulled open Kurt's door for him. He grinned and offered a hand.

Kurt took it before hooking his hand under Blaine's elbow, "You'll tell me though if you don't feel well?"

"Of course," Blaine smiled around at the storefronts as they walked inside, "Almost feels like normal, huh?"

Kurt smiled, "Almost."

They wandered through stores and admired displays until Kurt decided it was time for them to get to work on shopping.

He stared at Trip with both hands on his hips and scanned him over carefully. Trip was a noticeable person despite his bland attire—the eyes; the hair color… what Kurt had somehow missed was Trip's height. He gaped at him openly, "You're the same size as Blaine."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Blaine turned to pout at him from where he was picking through a rack of t-shirts.

"I just… I thought you were taller," Kurt blinked at Trip curiously. He was good at details when it came to people. It unsettled him that he'd missed something so obvious.

Trip didn't seem bothered; he shrugged, "Are you done undressing me with your eyes yet, or what?"

"On the contrary, I'm trying to  _dress_ you," Kurt sniffed indignantly and made his way to a table filled with neatly folded t-shirts, "Purple would look good on you. It'll bring out your hair and your eyes…. Maybe a nice lavender…"

"I'm not wearing purple." Trip watched Kurt warily as he picked through the shirts.

"Why not?" Kurt unfolded a deep purple, low-necked t-shirt, "See? It's boring, but—"

"No," Trip took a step back, "No purple, pink, ruffles, bows, wide necks, or knee-length anything."

"You're absolutely no fun to take shopping," Kurt sighed and replaced the shirt. He set to work picking out things for himself and soon had his arms filled.

Blaine and Trip sat on the floor by the dressing rooms while Kurt modeled his selections for them.

When he came out in his fifth shirt and Blaine whistled, he made a face, "You have the same overly excited reaction to everything; how am I supposed to tell what you actually like?"

"I like all of them," Blaine shrugged.

"I like the length on that one," Trip offered.

Kurt eyed him suspiciously, but Trip showed no signs of teasing, "I thought you said you were against knee length anything."

"On me yes, not you," Trip was holding Kurt's scarf in his hands; smoothing the fabric over his fingers.

"Fine, I'll put it in the yes pile." Kurt returned to the dressing room to change into yet another shirt.

Blaine closed his eyes and tipped his head back against the wall.

Trip glanced down the row of dressing rooms toward Kurt's closed door before looking back at Blaine, "Any particular reason you're trying to make him think you feel fan-fucking-tastic today when you're actually ready to drop dead?"

"I'm not gonna drop dead," Blaine mumbled; he opened his eyes and scratched at a spot under his hat.

Trip snorted, "Bullshit; you practically collapsed the second we sat down back here."

"It's just a little headache," Blaine pulled his hand out from under his hat and checked his fingers apprehensively.

"Has your hair been falling out?" Trip asked quietly.

Blaine smiled grimly at him, "I think I liked you better when you were bedridden; you weren't nearly so…so…"

"Observant?" Trip wrapped Kurt's scarf into a loose knot around his wrist.

Blaine nodded. His eyes drifted down to Kurt's scarf, "He'll kill you if you wrinkle that."

"You're avoiding my question," Trip slid the fabric off his hand.

Blaine blinked at him, "Oh…right…could you repeat it?"

"Why are you faking happy for Kurt?"

"Oh, that," Blaine glanced toward Kurt's dressing room, "I'm... trying to make this okay for him; that he's staying here, I mean… I don't want him to be…to be burnt out before anyone even leaves."

Trip stared down at the floor and shook his head.

"What?"

"You two are just—" Trip shook his head again before looking back at Blaine, "I asked about your hair, too."

Almost unconsciously, Blaine pulled his hat down lower, "It's just one spot really that's gone."

"Can I see?" Trip twisted sideways to face Blaine.

Blaine glanced down the row of doors again before pulling his hat off.

Trip inspected the spot, "Turn your head."

Blaine did as he was told, "How's it look back there? I lost my hand mirror, so I can't ever see."

Trip sighed, "You want me to be honest?"

"If  _you_  can't be, I don't know who will," Blaine cringed, "Just tell me."

Trip was quiet for another second, "... Everything is accounted for."

"What?" Blaine touched a hand to the back of his head and made a face, "You asshole, you freaked me out on purpose."

Trip laughed just as Kurt came parading back out of the dressing room.

"Okay, I know you're going to like—" Kurt stopped short, his eyes flying straight to Blaine's head.

Blaine smiled weakly, "Does it look that bad?"

Kurt knelt down beside him and touched his fingers to the spot, "Of course it doesn't… but why didn't you tell me?"

Blaine shrugged, "Didn't seem important."

Kurt ran his hand gingerly over the rest of Blaine's head, "Do you think it's from the new treatment? Did they change the drug yet?"

"Dunno," Blaine shrank back against the wall when a saleswoman wandered into the dressing area with a customer.

"You don't know if you're losing hair from the treatment or you don't know if they changed it?"

"My hair fell out last week," Blaine amended, "I don't know about the treatment."

"Didn't they tell you at the doctor's appointment?"

Blaine glanced at Kurt almost guiltily, "I don't listen very well at appointments."

Kurt looked at him incredulously, "Blaine."

"I thought I'd be the guy that's like Google obsessed trying to learn stuff, or I'd go to appointments with lists of questions about things, but…" Blaine shook his head, "my head goes all fuzzy, and I just want to go home the whole time so bad that I feel like I can't even hear what they're telling me."

Trip and Kurt exchanged a look silently before Kurt reached out and squeezed Blaine's hand.

Blaine's eyes drifted over to Kurt's shirt, "…I really like that one."

"Blaine, do you want to talk about—"

"No," Blaine shook his head decisively, "I want to sit here and think about how I'm dating a guy who could make a burlap sack look good. Stand up so I can see."

Kurt hesitated for a second before straightening up; he twirled once and smiled, "On a scale of simply amazing to completely fabulous, where would you rank this?"

"I like it so much that I want to take it off you," Blaine proclaimed, his eyes roaming over the black fabric.

"I'd remind you to filter," Kurt turned to admire himself in the mirror, "But it's true; I look amazing. I'm buying it."

Trip catcalled after Kurt when he made his way back to the dressing room, but as soon as the door closed, he turned his gaze back to Blaine, "Is it true?"

"Is what true?" Blaine took the cue from Trip and lowered his voice.

"About the doctors appointments."

Blaine put his hat back on and stared at his knees, "Sort of."

Trip watched Blaine warily, "Why are you lying to him?"

"Why's it any of your business?" Blaine snapped; his voice louder.

Kurt peaked out of his room, "Everything okay?"

"Just peachy; get dressed so we can go," Trip waved him away.

Blaine stared sullenly at his shoes.

"…You're right; it's not my business what you decide to talk to him about." Trip straightened up and offered a hand to Blaine.

Blaine took it and allowed Trip to pull him to his feet, "Could you…just don't mention it to him."

"Sure," Trip shrugged, "Can I ask something else?"

"Would me saying no stop you?" Blaine leaned against the wall and rubbed his temples.

Trip didn't smile, "Are you getting good news or bad news?"

Blaine met his eyes, but then Kurt was pushing his way out of the dressing room, both arms overflowing with his soon-to-be purchases.

"All that?" Blaine smiled at the tangle of shirts, "Your dad's going to kill you."

"I'll buy half with my own card," Kurt looked down at his prizes, "…or maybe a third of it with my card… Did you find anything?"

"Nothing," Blaine held out his empty hands as proof.

"Do you want to keep shopping or do you need to rest?" Kurt moved toward the cashier, but kept his eyes on Blaine for a response.

"I feel great; you wanna go to J Crew?" Blaine smiled brightly.

"Yes!" Kurt walked backwards the rest of the way to the counter, "I saw a shirt in their catalogue last week that's going to look amazing on you, trust me."

Blaine splayed out his arms, "My body is your canvas, put me in whatever you want."

Kurt winked at him, "I knew I had a good reason for dating you."

When Kurt finally turned his attention to the cashier, Blaine kept smiling.

"Blaine," Trip spoke his name quietly.

Blaine's smile faltered, but then he was brushing past Trip and joining Kurt at the counter.

When the cashier turned away to pull out a bag, Blaine touched a quick kiss behind Kurt's ear before whispering, "Love you."

Kurt turned to give him a funny smile, "I don't know what I did to deserve that little display of affection, but thank you; I like hearing you say it."

Blaine took one of the bags from the counter and hooked it over his elbow before tangling his fingers between Kurt's, "I'll tell you everyday… I'll tell you forever."


	20. Chapter 18

"Yeah… yeah, I'm sorry about the delay—I'll cut the cost of the labor in half, how's that sound?" Burt Hummel paced the floor of the kitchen.

Kurt watched the cord strain when his father neared one end of the kitchen. Once he came back closer to the cradle on the wall, Kurt spied his opportunity. He leaped over the slack cord and turned to wait impatiently to repeat the routine.

"Listen, I've got a sick wife and a first grader here, things are stretched a little thin—" Burt moved toward the stove to pour macaroni noodles into a colander in the sink. He shook out the water as he listened to the person on the other line.

Kurt hopped the cord again and watched his father pour the noodles back into the pan. He dashed over to the counter and tore open the cheese packet. This was his favorite part; this was when he got to help.

Burt didn't look at him as he lowered the pan for Kurt to pour the powder in, he frowned out the window, "Yup, uh huh, I understand…"

Kurt frowned when his father replaced the pan on the stove; the burner still turned on, "Hey, Dad—"

Burt covered the receiver, "I'm on the phone, Kurt."

Kurt glanced between the stove and his father and fell silent. He waited anxiously for his father to finish his conversation. There were more mumbled 'uh huh's' and 'of course' and 'I understand if you want to take your business elsewhere', and finally, 'Sorry, again'.

Burt slammed the receiver down in its cradle, "Shit."

Burt Hummel never swore. At least not in front of his six year-old. Kurt's eyes went wide at the sound of the word leaving his father's lips. He'd heard it before of course. It was always on TV, and the guys that worked for his dad at the auto shop said it sometimes, but Burt always yelled at them if Kurt was around to hear it, "You said a bad word, Dad."

"Right, shouldn't ever say it," Burt glanced over his shoulder at Kurt before pulling the pan off the stove. He looked down into it and sighed. He turned it for Kurt to see, "You think that's edible?"

Kurt wrinkled his nose at the orange-tinted glob glued to the bottom of the pan, "You aren't supposed to keep cooking it after you put the cheese stuff in."

"Why didn't you say that earlier?" Burt turned on the sink and tried to scrape the mess of macaroni and cheese into the garbage disposal.

"You were on the phone and said not to interrupt." Kurt glared at his father.

"Okay…well… peanut butter and jelly then." Burt abandoned the pan under the running water and moved to the cupboard.

Kurt heard his mother cough from the family room. He peaked around the door to look at her on the couch. His father had given him strict instructions not to get to close because he might make her sick. He tried to smile at her, but she wasn't looking, "Dad, when can I sit with Mommy again?"

"As soon as—" The phone rang again. Burt snagged it and cradled it between his ear and shoulder, "Hummel residence; this is Burt speaking…hey Jack, yeah, I'm coming in today. Waiting on the home health aid to get in and I've gotta get Kurt to school—no; I'm bringing him in late today, we had a rough morning…what? Did you check the engine?"

Kurt peaked back around the corner and tried to wave to his mother, but now her eyes were closed. She slept a lot. Kurt moved back toward his father's side and listened idly to Burt's side of the conversation. He liked Jack Mackenzie; he had been babysitting him a lot lately and Jack's house was fun. He had two daughters a couple years younger than Kurt, so they all watched  _Aladdin_  together and played house sometimes.

Burt handed the sandwich down to Kurt and moved away from him; a hand rubbing over his eyes, "I know… I know… you don't need to make the call; I'll deal with it—"

Kurt sighed. His father could never remember that he liked the bread cut in triangles, and today he hadn't even bothered to cut it at all. He climbed into a chair at the table and contemplated what excuse he could use to get out of going to school for the afternoon. He hated school. The other kids teased him and now that his mother was always sick and sleeping, he couldn't even go to her when he got off the bus for a hug to make it better.

The whistle of the teakettle made Kurt jump in his seat. His father pulled it off the burner, but didn't bother pouring the water into a mug. He was too absorbed in his phone call. He moved out the kitchen door; the cord straining after him.

Kurt gasped when he eyed his sandwich. The bread was green at the edges. He felt his stomach churn and he abandoned the thing on the table. He looked to where his father had disappeared before turning his gaze back to the kettle where steam was curling out of the spout in slow tendrils.

His father made his mother tea almost everyday. It made her mouth feel better or her throat or her tummy or something… Kurt listened to the strained notes in his father's voice as an idea took shape in his head. If he made the tea himself, he could probably bring it to his mommy and maybe even get a kiss and a hug for his efforts. He climbed out of his chair and pushed it over near the stove. He climbed onto the counter and pulled open the cupboard. He found the white mug with his handprint on it that he'd made for her last Mother's Day. It was her favorite. He put it down on the counter before climbing across the counter to another cupboard to find the tea bags. He stared at the boxes and tried to remember which one she liked best… he was pretty sure it was the kind in the yellow box with the picture of leaves on the front. He pulled out a bag and carefully climbed back onto his chair. He dropped the bag into the bottom of the cup before turning his attention to the teakettle. He wrapped both hands around the handle and lifted it carefully. It was a lot heavier than he thought it would be; his arms trembled when he tipped it over the mug. He opted to rest the spout against the lip of the cup to alleviate some of the weight in his hands, but then the cup was sliding. He panicked and reached out for the handle, but the pot was too heavy for just one of his little arms to balance; the spout slid and scalding water poured out over his hand.

With a yelp of pain at the sudden burn against his fingers, he let go of mug and kettle, sending both things crashing to the floor. He clutched his hand to his chest and stared down at the mess through tear-filled eyes.

Burt came rushing back around the corner. His eyes went wide and he cut his conversation off with a gruff, "I'll call you back."

He slammed the phone down in the cradle, "God dammit, Kurt, what the hell were you thinking!"

Kurt didn't know what hurt more—the sight of the shattered mug on the floor, his burning hand, or his father's words. Tears stung his eyes, "I-I j-just wanted to help. I'm s-s-sorry."

Burt's face melted into guilt. He stepped around the mess on the floor and gathered Kurt into his arms, his eyes flying down to the hand clutched to Kurt's chest, "Lemme see; did you hurt yourself?"

"I'm s-s-sorry!" Kurt wailed; he tried to turn away from his father in shame, but Burt held him steady.

"I'm not mad, buddy, just let me see your hand, okay? We'll talk about this, but I need to see that you're okay first." Burt coaxed Kurt's hand out with a gentle grip on his wrist.

Kurt's eyes went wide when he saw the red, welted skin of his own palm.

Burt muttered something before shoving Kurt's hand under the cold tap. He held Kurt there for a long minute before putting a washcloth in under the water and wrapping it around Kurt's hand, "Keep that on there for a bit."

Kurt held the cloth gingerly against the injured skin when his father set him down on the edge of the counter and turned his attention to mopping up the water on the floor and replacing the kettle on the stove.

When Burt moved to throw the shards of glass into the trashcan, Kurt's tears came faster, "C-can we t-try to glue it b-b-back together?"

Burt looked down at the remnants of the cup in his hands and sighed, "How about we make her a whole new one instead?"

Kurt nodded as best he could; cradled his hand closer to his chest until the washcloth stained a wet patch against his shirt.

Burt moved back to Kurt, "How's the hand?"

"It hurts," Kurt sniffled.

Burt rested his hands on either side of Kurt's waist, "I'm sorry I yelled, bud, I didn't mean it."

Kurt sniffled in response; the words still scalding his head and blistering his heart as much as the water against his palm.

Burt sighed and lifted Kurt from the counter; replaced him gently in a chair by the table. He looked down at the untouched sandwich; spied the moldy spots on the edge of the bread. He rubbed his eyes and sank down into a chair across from his son, "I'm gonna be straight with you, kid, okay?"

"'Kay," Kurt spoke in a small voice; looked up at his father's face through wet lashes.

Burt rested his elbows on his knees; looked down at the floor, "…stuff right now is tough, buddy…really tough."

Kurt nodded. He knew that.

"I'm behind at work, and taking care of you and your mom is a lot of work right now and I'm tired and I can't always do it all by myself."

Kurt remained motionless; tried not to breathe too loud. His father was invincible in his eyes. His dad could do anything—he could make a broken car come back to life; he could assemble Kurt's tea party table without even looking at the instructions; he always knew when Kurt was having a nightmare and exactly how to tight to hug him to make it better; he could make his mommy laugh even when she looked like she was going to cry. His father didn't ever ask for help.

Burt met Kurt's eyes, "But none of that's an excuse, okay? My job is to make things as good for you as I possibly can, and I know I haven't been doing that lately."

"You do a good job," Kurt whispered, "You're a really good dad."

Burt sighed—big and deep, "Sometimes… sometimes I get scared because it seems like all of this is too much and I need a helper... I've got the guys at the shop and that nice nurse Lindsey that comes by to help your mom, but sometimes… sometimes I need someone else to have my back."

"I was trying to help," Kurt looked down at his lap in shame, "I wanted to m-make mommy her tea."

"I know, and there's no excuse for the way I yelled at you. It wasn't you I was mad at. I just got—" Burt cut himself off; shook his head, "You and me are gonna help each other get through this, okay?"

"And mommy will help us, too." Kurt looked up from his lap to meet his father's eyes.

Burt pulled his baseball cap off; rubbed his head, "Lets have your mom focus on getting healthy; that'll be her job, okay?"

"What's my job?" Kurt stared intently at his father. He forgot about his burning hand because this was important. This was his chance to do something right.

Burt locked a hand on Kurt's shoulder; squeezed tight, "Your job is to keep being an awesome kid… and to yell at me when I try to poison you with expired food."

Kurt smiled a little, "Okay."

Burt dropped his hand from Kurt's shoulder and held it out to him, palm up, "We're gonna be okay as long as we help each other, okay?"

Kurt gripped his uninjured hand tight around his father's, "Okay."

 

* * *

Kurt had oil under his fingernails. Kurt Hummel had  _oil_  underneath his perfectly manicured, forever fussed over fingernails.

 

Well that wasn't entirely true; his nails were not nearly the perfect half moons that they used to be. They were short; jagged. A few were even a little pink around the top.

Kurt rubbed his eyes with his sleeve before holding a hand out in front of him to eye the nails mournfully, "I promise to start being better to you."

"Um… Kurt?"

Kurt startled a little at the voice behind him, "Oh, David. Finally back for your car?"

"Uh, yeah… your dad just went somewhere so I," David cleared his throat, "Decided to come in and pick it up."

"You waited outside the shop until you saw him leave to come in?" Kurt raised an eyebrow disdainfully.

David glared, "Can I get my keys or what?"

"Sure. They're in the front, come on," Kurt led them back to the front lobby, glancing over his shoulder as he walked, "How have you been getting around?"

"I walk." Karofsky mumbled.

Kurt slipped behind the front desk and started rooting through drawers, "They're in here somewhere. Give me a second to find them."

Karofsky shifted his weight from foot to foot on the other side of the desk, "…what's with your psycho friend?"

"Hmm?" Kurt frowned when he could find no sign of Karofsky's keys in the first drawer. That was the place they always kept keys… He tried the next own down.

Karofsky coughed, "The, um, the kid with the, you know… with the eyes."

Kurt snapped upright to fix Karofsky with an icy glare, "Trip Morgan."

Karofsky looked down at the floor, "Yeah him."

"Trip Morgan is a slimy, worthless virus who is going to have his lip ring torn out by yours truly the next time I see him." Kurt slammed the second drawer shut and pulled open a third.

"Oh." Karofsky said quietly. He asked for no explanation.

Kurt rooted through a tangle of rubber bands and paper clips. He looked up at David with narrowed eyes, "Why do you want to know?"

Karofsky flushed, "I didn't. He just… fucking weird kid is all."

"He's an asshole." Kurt said flatly. He shut the third drawer and turned his attention to a second set of drawers.

Karofsky looked at Kurt with mild surprise, "Wow, what'd he—"

Kurt's phone vibrated in his pocket. When he pulled it out and saw the caller ID he glared hard at the screen, "Speak of the devil."

"Wha—" David frowned, but Kurt was already answering his phone.

"You're dead to me."

"Fine, whatever, listen—"

"No, I will not listen,  _you_ listen," Kurt tore open another drawer, "You told me yesterday you'd go with Blaine to chemo since I couldn't and—"

"All right, yeah, but—"

"I don't remember saying I was finished speaking," Kurt snapped; he spied the keys immediately but was too consumed by his irritation to bother taking them out of the drawer; he opted to glare at them instead, "I asked if you could go with him and you said yes—"

"—I said—"

"You said yes, and then what happened Trip? Hmm? What do you think happened next?" David looked at Kurt in bewilderment as he slammed the keys down on the counter in front of him.

"Jesus Christ, could you calm down for—"

Kurt needed to do something; he needed to…he needed to pace. Yeah, that was it. He needed to stalk back and forth across the lobby because Trip Morgan was an asshole. Trip Morgan had actually been okay the past few days and even agreed to accompany Blaine to chemotherapy in light of Kurt's mandatory day of work to start compensating for the damage he'd done with his father's credit card. Trip Morgan had not shown up at the clinic yesterday. Kurt Hummel was going to make sure Trip Morgan knew that he was a dead man, "You don't get to tell me to calm down, you insufferable, two-faced little—"

"—Blaine's really sick."

Kurt halted so quickly he nearly tripped over the rug in front of the door, "What?"

"He's out of whatever thing makes him not puke," Trip said something to someone away from the receiver before adding, "And he's currently trying to vomit out his entire digestive system; thought you should know."

"Why didn't you say that right away?" Kurt snarled; he wasn't sure what infuriated him more—Trip's total calm or the fact that he was at Blaine's side when Kurt wasn't.

"I was busy getting my head bitten off," Trip replied coolly, "So you wanna come over or what?"

"You think you could manage to actually stay with him until I get there?" Kurt abandoned his pacing and opted to glare down at the linoleum instead.

"Jesus, yes, I'm not—"

"If you are mean to him right now, so help me—"

"This is fun and all, but I'm gonna go ahead and hang up."

Before Kurt could say another word, the line went silent on the other end. He let out a frustrated growl, "I loathe him."

"That was the guy? Blaine's friend?" Karofsky was still standing by the front desk.

"If you can even call him that," Kurt seethed; he moved back toward the door leading to the garage. He spied one of his father's employees, "Jack! Tell my dad I went to take care of something."

Karofsky watched him as he pulled his own keys from a hook on the wall and stripped off his coveralls, "You're…you're pretty bent out of shape about this."

"I was stupid enough to believe he actually cared enough to be a tiny bit selfless," Kurt made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat, "Blaine sat at chemo by himself yesterday and had to sit on the phone with Rachel for company because Trip couldn't be bothered to so much as call him to let him know he wasn't showing up. He's a dead man."

"Was Blaine mad?"

"Blaine is like a golden retriever," Kurt sighed as he folded his coveralls into a neat square, "If you smile at him long enough, he'll believe you're his new best friend. Of course he wasn't."

Karofsky stared down at his keys. They remained untouched on the counter, "…I had kind of been under the impression he was a friend of yours, too."

Kurt glowered at David, "Are you trying to defend the person whose entire interaction with you consists of demanding a blowjob and then sucking your face off?"

"No, I was just—" David glowered and snatched his keys off the counter, "Forget I said anything."

"Whatever. Fine," Kurt brushed past him and pushed open the front door. He glanced over his shoulder at David, "My dad will be back soon, but if you want to stand around and chat with him about all your recent observations, feel free."

Kurt didn't wait to watch David half-trip, half-run out of the auto shop. He climbed into his car and pulled out his phone as soon as he was moving.

"Hello?"

"Rachel; it's me," Kurt glanced in his rearview mirror to see David shrinking into the distance; he was staring underneath the hood of his car, but Kurt couldn't be bothered to wonder why.

"Hey, do you need me to pick you up?"

"No, I'm sorry, Rachel, but I can't go to lunch with you and Quinn today."

"What? Why?"

"Blaine's really sick and Trip Morgan has a date with death."

"Kurt, please don't do anything particularly awful to him. I told Blaine I wasn't going to tell you about him not showing up."

"Too late. Plans for plastic wrap, garbage bags, and duct tape have already been made," Kurt replied flatly, "Now all I need is a boat and an ocean to dump the body in afterwards."

"Kurt, I understand you being irritated with him, but I really don't understand why you're so upset about this."

Kurt gripped the wheel a little harder with his free hand, "I don't expect you to understand. Just…I'm sorry about lunch; you girls should go without me, though, and we'll figure something out with the three of us another day."

"Lunch with just… just us?" Rachel sounded skeptical.

"You're the two who need to bond or something, right?" Kurt turned off onto a back road and switched his phone to his other ear, "You can talk about… talk about the time you almost had the same nose or something."

Rachel's voice was quiet, "…I still don't know about all of this, Kurt."

"Neither does she," Kurt sighed, "I really am sorry, Rachel, if you want I can call her and just ask about another day."

Rachel was silent for a long moment, "…No. No, I'll still go… but you owe me lunch."

"Deal. Say hi to Quinn for me."

"Give Blaine a kiss for me and tell him I'm still waiting on his e-mail."

"I don't even want to know what you two are scheming," Kurt rolled his eyes, "I'll talk to you later. Have fun."

Once he hung up, he pushed down on the gas pedal a little harder and focused in on the road. He was getting a little too good at the drive to New Albany. He'd mastered the art of slipping through yellow lights just as red flashed above his head. He knew which back roads he could take to avoid spots notoriously heavy on traffic and where the cops sat hidden at the bottoms of hills to trying catch speeders. He smirked at his clock when he pulled into the Anderson driveway. An hour and twenty minutes. Not bad at all.

He quickly wiped the smirk off his face when he got out of the car—he needed to take care of Blaine and murder Trip; the situation required the iciest of bitch glares. He let himself in the front door and went straight up the steps toward Blaine's room; the house was oddly silent outside the hum of the bathroom fan and the quiet murmur of voices trickling out from Blaine's open door.

"Lookie who's here, Blaine," Trip was sitting cross-legged on the bathroom floor; Blaine was collapsed in his lap and shivering visibly.

Blaine cracked open an eye and looked up at Kurt; his voice was raspy, "H-hey."

Kurt smiled and knelt down in front of Blaine, "Hey yourself; how do you feel?"

"I feel like—" Blaine groaned.

Trip caught a hold of his arm and pulled him upright, "In the toilet, not my lap, please."

Kurt flinched when Blaine lurched forward to grip onto the side of the toilet. He knew better than to touch him.

He didn't move from his spot, but Trip kept his eyes trained on Blaine. He squeezed the heel of his foot and smiled, "The sound effects are nice, pal. Not as good as they were earlier, but not bad."

It was even worse than the first time Kurt had ever seen him sick—he just  _kept_ throwing up. Kurt's hand reached out to brush Blaine's leg without his permission, but Blaine was oblivious to the contact. Kurt met Trip's eyes with a glare, "How long has he been getting sick for?"

"He felt shitty when I got over here this morning, but he wasn't sick yet then; he's been hugging the toilet for a few hours," Trip shrugged, "His mom went to try to get a refill on his meds."

Blaine was panting for breath; his fingers dug hard into the white porcelain. Without warning, he collapsed back onto his heels; swaying precariously.

Trip touched a hand to his shoulder and helped him lower his head back down to his lap. He smiled and rubbed his hand over Blaine's back, "My how the tides have turned, hey buddy?"

Blaine groaned in response and curled his legs in tighter to his chest.

Trip looked up at Kurt again, apparently oblivious to the daggers he was throwing at him with his eyes, "Could you run down to the laundry room and get the blanket out of the dryer?"

Kurt blinked at him, "What?"

"A dryer is a thing you use to make wet clothes dry; it heats them up and—"

"Do you want me to kill you with my bare hands, because I'll do it." Kurt snapped.

"Jesus Christ you're a bitch today," Trip slipped an arm around Blaine's chest and half-lifted him off of him, "Fine, you sit with Princess Puke and I'll go get it."

" S'op manhanilin' me," Blaine mumbled; closing his eyes tighter.

Kurt glowered at Trip but quickly took his place beside Blaine. He stroked a hand down his side gently, "Sorry."

Kurt listened to the heavy sound of Trip jogging down the stairs and ghosted his fingers over the sweat-dampened fabric of Blaine's shirt, "You haven't gotten this sick in awhile—did you eat something—"

Blaine moaned, "Don' mention food."

"Okay, okay; sorry," Kurt backpedaled as quickly as he could, "Did something different happen than usual?"

Blaine's head twitched against his lap and when he didn't offer a verbal response to go with it, Kurt decided Blaine was shaking his head that no, nothing different had happened to bring on the sudden illness.

Trip was gone for nearly fifteen minutes before he reappeared in the bathroom door; a cream colored blanket draped over one arm.

Kurt glared at him, "Get lost?"

"I've been sitting here for hours with him. I needed to piss," He crouched down beside Blaine and Kurt and tilted his head to meet Blaine's eyes, "Look it what I got."

Blaine didn't open his eyes, but Trip didn't seem to mind. He draped the blanket over Blaine's body that was curled so tightly in upon itself, it looked almost painful. He groused when Trip jostled him.

"Relax, I'm tucking it under you so you're not laying on fucking tile." Trip worked carefully; shoving the blanket in under Blaine's knees and around his shoulders until he was cocooned in fleece.

Trip sat back to assess his work and gave a self-assured smile to Blaine when he relaxed a little beneath the blanket, "Good, right?"

"Mhm," Blaine burrowed in lower to the blanket and sighed.

Kurt watched Trip curiously; unsure of what to make of this sudden tenderness, "Trip Morgan does laundry?"

Trip sat down and rolled his eyes, "I shoved a blanket in the dryer to heat it up; that hardly qualifies as laundry."

"Trip knew I was col'," Blaine mumbled; a shadow of a smile passed over his mouth but was quickly replaced by a grimace.

"You were shaking so hard your teeth were chattering; doesn't take a fucking genius to figure out you needed to be warmed up, Anderson," Trip glanced up at Kurt, "And your boyfriend would have taken my face off if I let you die."

"I'm still going to tear your face off," Kurt said flatly, but then Blaine was scrambling to sit up and all of his attention went to him.

They did it two more times; three more times; four more times. Trip took the blanket back down to the dryer despite Blaine's protests and added a second one for good measure. When nearly an hour of the cycle had passed, Blaine finally collapsed a final time into Kurt's side. He let out a pathetic sounding whimper and Kurt was immediately stroking his cheek; squeezing his fingers, "What's wrong, Blaine?"

Blaine only burrowed under the blanket further in response until his eyes were hidden in the folds of the fabric.

"Blaine," Kurt coaxed him gently; rubbed slow circles in the small of his back, "What's the matter?"

"M' head," Blaine's voice came out muffled from underneath the blanket.

"Your head hurts?" Kurt tried to pull the blanket down off of Blaine's face, but he held tight.

Trip crawled in closer, grabbed Blaine by the shoulders and hauled him closer, "Put your head on my lap. Don't be a dick about it."

Blaine groaned, but had little choice in the matter with Trip pulling at him. He did, however, put up a fuss when Trip tore the blanket down off his face, "Trip!"

"Leave him alone!" Kurt snapped.

Trip ignored both of them and pressed his fingers lightly into the edge of Blaine's hairline, "Hold still."

Blaine moaned pathetically, "Go die."

"Shut up," Trip replied coolly. He rubbed his fingers lightly over Blaine's forehead before pressing his fingers in behind his head.

Blaine stilled and remained quiet.

Trip worked at it for another couple minutes, "Any better?"

"Mmm."

"I'll take that as a yes."

"You smell like cigarettes," Blaine rolled off Trip's lap and snuggled closer to Kurt, only to recoil again, "You smell like cologne."

Blaine ended up curled in the blanket with his head on the floor between them.

"You're an awful baby when you're sick," Trip nudged him lightly with his foot, "If you put half of the effort you put into griping into keeping your breakfast down, we'd have been finished with your little vomit-fest hours ago."

"Trip. Hall. Now." Kurt glared.

"Why?" Trip smiled innocently.

Kurt turned his attention to Blaine; he stroked a hand across his back, "Will you be okay for a few minutes alone?"

"Mhm." Blaine pulled the blanket back over his head.

"Don't puke in your little blanket cocoon; I'm not cleaning you up again." Trip warned.

Kurt grabbed Trip by the arm and half dragged him out of the room.

Trip tore his arm free, but he smirked, "I'm all for being dangerous, Hummel, but I don't know how I feel about getting handsy with you with Blaine in the next room."

Kurt jabbed a finger into Trip's chest, "You think you're so goddamn above it all, don't you? Trip Morgan, too fucking badass for the rest of us. Well, guess what, I have news for you,  _pal,_ I am not going to put up with your bullshit."

Trip glanced down at Kurt's finger and then back up to his face with irritation, "What's with the pent up rage routine, Hummel?"

"You know damn well why I'm angry with you!"

"What? Are you jealous I'm giving more attention to your boy toy than you?" Trip let out a loud laugh—a sound that was strangely lovely coming from him—but no, Kurt didn't want to think anything nice about him. Trip shook the hair from his eyes, still chuckling, "Trust me, Blaine is not my type when he's at his best, let alone with the look he has going right now."

"You're a terrible person, you know that?" Kurt was suddenly so livid he couldn't even process Trip opting to play dumb about the root of his fury, "Say shit about me if you want, but he doesn't deserve it. He has been nothing but good to you when everyone else is ready to run you down with their car."

"Everyone else being you?" Trip raised an eyebrow, unfettered by Kurt's ferocity.

"Everyone else being anyone who has the misfortune of crossing paths with you!" Kurt took a step closer, enjoying the couple inches of height he had on the other boy, "You are nothing but an insensitive, fucked up asshole in need of a haircut and someone to seriously kick your ass. I have no freaking clue why Blaine is so adamant about keeping you around when all you can do is be a dick to him. Do you have any fucking clue how hard things are for him right now? How much energy he puts into trying to hold onto himself? He shouldn't be wasting his time dealing with you and all the bullshit you create. He might be too kind to tell you to back the hell off, but I'm not."

Trip's smile fell. He studied Kurt quietly before tilting his head and finally speaking, "You wanna give me a hair cut?"

Kurt blinked, "Excuse me?"

"I asked if you'd cut my goddamn hair. My aunt and uncle say I can't keep it like this. Not up to the Dalton Dapper Factor I guess."

Kurt narrowed his eyes at him, "Did you stop listening at haircut or—"

"No, I fucking heard you Hummel, you just screamed in my face, but right now I'm asking if you're at all decent at cutting hair." Trip moved away from Kurt to rummage through the things on Blaine's desk.

Kurt flexed his fingers out and then clenched them into tight fists. He didn't even know what he was feeling anymore, "Why the hell would I want to cut your hair?"

Trip pulled a pair of scissors from a cup on the desktop and turned back toward Kurt, the scissors extended out toward him, "You cut my hair, I'll tell you a little story. Deal?"

Kurt glared down at the scissors. He wanted to tell Trip to get the hell out and never come back. He wanted to go deal with Blaine curled up on the floor. But he needed an ally…he needed… He brushed past Trip, "I'm not cutting your hair with those."

Trip stood idly in the doorway while Kurt went through the drawers underneath Blaine's sink, "Is that a yes?"

"Go get a chair." Kurt snapped, not looking up from his search. Trip apparently was happy enough to comply because the next thing Kurt heard was the scrape of a chair sliding across the linoleum. He straightened up and inspected Trip silently; contemplated still saying no...

Trip crouched down to peer at Blaine, "He's out cold."

"Let him sleep," Kurt moved behind the chair and glared down at Trip, "I'm waiting."

Trip raised himself into the chair; his eyes directed toward the far wall, "Ready when you are."

"I could chop it off horribly uneven and make you look completely ridiculous," Kurt threatened; the scissors held out over the top of Trip's head.

"You could," Trip agreed calmly.

Kurt stood still for another minute before finally lowering the scissors to Trip's head. He dragged a comb through a back session and snipped off a solid inch.

Trip didn't react in any particular way, so Kurt cut another and another. The sound of the scissors filled the silence.

"I got in trouble back home."

Kurt paused for a moment in his cutting, "…What for?"

"A lot of stuff," Trip sat perfectly still; his eyes glued to the wall.

They fell silent again apart from the slide of the scissors through Trip's hair. Kurt brushed away a few loose pieces of hair still clinging to the back of Trip's head. He bent down to check on Blaine who had flung his arm out above his head. He adjusted his arm into a slightly less awkward position and started in on the front if Trip's head.

"I had a drug…thing."

Kurt cut one spot a little too short. He moved back around Trip to try and even out the rest to match, "A problem?"

"Some might call it that," Trip shrugged.

Kurt cut slowly; carefully, "Turn so I can do the side."

Trip turned, and if his eyes weren't so vividly bright, Kurt would have missed the way they studied his face for a second in the mirror before going back down to stare at the sink, "the, um, the withdrawal with painkillers is a real bitch."

"Painkillers?" Kurt echoed vacantly. He brushed more hair from Trip's shoulders.

Trip started to nod, but Kurt stopped him with a firm hand on his head, "I met Blaine a week after I quit again."

"…Again?" Kurt echoed Trip a second time.

Trip shrugged; cleared his throat, "The whole grand escape to Ohio came with conditions…one being that I have to go to meetings where everyone sits around and cries about their feelings for two hours. Ensure I don't slip up or something."

Kurt caught Trip's gaze in the mirror, "Why didn't you just tell me that yesterday when I asked you to go with Blaine?"

"Because it's none of your goddamn business."

Kurt moved to stand back in front of Trip; he brushed the hair off his forehead and leveled the scissors carefully, "So why are you telling me now?"

Trip watched Kurt's face intently, "Because I want you to tell me something."

"What?"

"Why are you so fucking angry with me about this?"

Kurt glared at him, "Which part of Blaine was alone at—"

"Yeah, I got that part," Trip pushed Kurt's hands away from his hair, "But when have I ever done anything to prove I'd do anything better than that, huh? This isn't about me flaking on Blaine."

"Yes it is, you—"

"No. It's not," Trip frowned, "Those meetings don't do jack shit for me for the most part, but I do know a thing or two about people projecting their shit onto other things."

Kurt folded his arm across his chest and glared at Trip. He still had a spot left to finish cutting, but he was tempted to send him packing just as he was because he had no fucking right to—"You're right."

Trip looked mildly surprised, but then he was just staring again; waiting.

"Not entirely right, because I  _am_  really fucking pissed with you," Kurt moved back in closer; raised the scissors again.

"So what are you so bent out of shape about?"

Kurt clipped the final section, "It's none of your goddamn business."

"Touché." Trip eyed himself in the mirror; passed a hand through his hair. He turned and tilted his head up to look at Kurt again, "What do you think?"

Kurt was half-lost in thought; he glanced at Trip's head, "Better."

Trip turned back to the mirror and turned his head from side to side.

"You're in charge of picking up the hair. I'm not touching it." Kurt stepped gingerly around the mess and settled himself down beside Blaine.

Trip slid out of his chair and down to the floor. He lifted a lock of auburn hair and held it up to the side of Blaine's head, "We could make him a wig."

Kurt forced the smirk down that pulled at the corners of his mouth. He sighed, "Did Blaine know you were going to those meetings?"

Trip shrugged; busied himself cleaning up the floor.

"If he knew about the drug problem, why didn't you just tell him you couldn't go?"

More silence in response.

"Trip."

"I have my reasons." Trip was almost done cleaning; he dropped the last few locks into the trashcan.

"Those being?"

Trip straightened up and dragged the chair out of the bathroom. He looked at Kurt from the bedroom; his eyes flickered down to Blaine, "Thanks for the haircut, Hummel, but since you're here to play first mate to Captain Blaine and the S.S. Vomit, I'm gonna go."

"Trip, don't go; I need—"

He was gone down the steps faster than Kurt could even get to his feet.

Blaine shifted in closer to Kurt's leg; mumbled something in his sleep. Kurt glanced at his watch. Two o clock.

Kurt shook Blaine's shoulder gently, "Blaine, Blaine; wake up; you need to take your medicine, and we should probably get you to your bed. You'll be more comfortable there."

Blaine mumbled something incoherent again; turned his face into Kurt's thigh.

Kurt sighed, "Please, Blaine? I don't have it in me to fight you on this right now."

Blaine didn't move.

"Blaine," Kurt felt frustrated tears stinging his eyes, "Please."

To his relief, Blaine turned his head to squint at him through bleary eyes, "Huh?"

"Bed and medicine," Kurt shifted to his knees and hooked a hand under Blaine's arm until he was up on his knees too.

Blaine got to his feet shakily. He held tight to Kurt's arm.

"Can you walk to your bed?"

Blaine nodded a little; took a few drunken steps forward, "Just a little dizzy."

They made it safely back into the bedroom, and as soon as Kurt pulled the blankets back, Blaine curled into the mattress. He stared groggily at the bottles on his desktop.

Kurt picked up the pill organizer and shook two into his palm and found a half-filled bottle of water on the nightstand. He offered both to Blaine and watched intently when Blaine swallowed them down.

Blaine smiled hazily at Kurt and shifted sideways in the bed, "Lay with me?"

Kurt climbed in beside him and let Blaine nuzzle his too-hot body into his side. He was asleep again within minutes.

Kurt traced patterns over his back; stared up at the ceiling.

"I love you," Kurt touched a kiss to Blaine's head; whispered his secrets into the short, dark hair, "…but I need help."


	21. Chapter 19

"Is that for you or for a gift?" Kurt leaned in closer to inspect the sweater in Blaine's hands.

"Neither; just looking," Blaine folded the shirt and replaced it in the stack. He gave Kurt a funny smile, "You're very interested in everything I look at."

Kurt turned quickly to face another rack of clothing when he felt a warm blush color his cheeks, "Just curious as to what Blaine Anderson wears outside his Dalton blazer."

"You've seen me in clothes other than my Dalton blazer," Blaine moved to stand beside Kurt. He picked absently through the hangers.

"Yes, when I've been around you've worn a Dalton cardigan, a Dalton polo, and then of course that one fateful day you wore a Dalton sweatshirt to Warblers practice and Wes almost went into cardiac arrest," Kurt rolled his eyes, "You do own something outside your Dalton apparel, right?"

Blaine laughed; a sound that colored Kurt's cheeks even more, but thankfully Blaine seemed oblivious as he continued to push through the rack of clothing, "Yes, I own things outside my Dalton clothes."

"What kinds of things do you wear?" Kurt prodded.

Blaine shrugged, "I don't know. Just…clothes."

Kurt gaped at him openly, "You read _Vogue_ , Blaine, and you're gay. I know you know that there is no such thing as  _just_  clothes."

Blaine smiled warmly and gave the lapel of Kurt's jacket an affectionate tug, "Me being gay does not mean I'm obligated to have your impeccable sense of fashion."

Kurt blushed again at the compliment. He really needed to get a handle on that; Blaine could only remain oblivious for so long, right? He let out a huff of frustration, "Blaine."

"Kurt."

Kurt gave him a pointed look. Despite his nearly inescapable blushing, he had quickly grown to love how easy things were with Blaine. The quick banter; the endless chatter—Blaine had worked his way into Kurt's heart faster than anyone else had even managed to graze the edges. "You're being intentionally abhorrent in your avoidance of the question. I refuse to believe you just throw on the shirt you found on the bedroom floor."

"And I refuse to believe you're actually feeling as petulant as you're acting about my lack of response," Blaine broke into a full grin, "Come over and see for yourself if you're so curious."

Kurt blinked, "Come…come to your dorm?"

Blaine nodded, "Yeah, sure, if you're in no hurry to get home that is."

"No, no hurry at all!" Kurt said almost breathlessly.

Blaine gave him a funny look, but then turned his gaze back to the displays in the store, "I'm striking out here. Do you see anything?"

Kurt admired the fringe of Blaine's hair against the white of his uniform shirt when he tipped his head back to look at a higher rack of dresses, "…no."

Blaine tipped his head back down and pressed a hand into the small of Kurt's back, "Lets try somewhere else then."

"We've already tried all the department stores," Kurt took a half step in closer to Blaine. He caught their reflection in a display window and he pretended for just a minute the gorgeous boy beside him was more than just his friend; that the hand that had already left his back had actually meant something, that he could move his hand just a little closer and lace his fingers between Blaine's…

"Kurt?"

Kurt startled out of his daydream, "Sorry, were you saying something?"

"I asked if you wanted to check out that new boutique over by the Gap."

"Oh, um, sure." Kurt trailed after Blaine and tried to keep his mind from drifting.

They prodded through the racks of clothes, but Kurt's previous shopping high had taken a dip. Blaine wasn't his and it was silly to—

Kurt felt something soft brush the back of his neck and then the smell of Blaine's cologne was right behind him, "Look."

Kurt looked down to see soft, deep blue fabric hanging against his neck. A scarf. He ran his fingers over the edge and moved to look in a mirror on the wall. He twisted it around with quick fingers until it was lying just right. He smiled at Blaine, "Good eye."

Blaine nodded with a self-satisfied smile, "You need to have that."

Kurt groaned, "What I  _need_  is more than twenty dollars in my bank account. I don't know why I even agreed to torture myself by coming here today."

Blaine chewed at his lip for a minute before untwisting the scarf from Kurt's neck and striding toward the cashier purposefully.

Kurt chased after him, "What're you doing?"

"Buying you a scarf." Blaine replied pleasantly. He flashed the cashier a smile as he pulled out his wallet.

"Blaine, you really don't have to do that." Kurt watched in mild alarm as Blaine scribbled his signature out on the bottom of a receipt.

"I want to," He held out the bag toward Kurt, "It can be my Christmas present for you."

Kurt's fingers brushed Blaine's when he took the bag, "Thank you."

Blaine pulled out his phone to check a text, but he flashed Kurt a quick smile, "You're welcome."

Kurt trailed behind Blaine for the rest of the shopping trip, his fingers occasionally dipping into the bag to touch the soft fabric.

Blaine glanced over at him as they climbed into the car, "You still up for coming over for awhile?"

Kurt bobbed his head up and down quickly.

"You sure? You seem a little out of it." Blaine looked over again as he navigated his way out of the parking lot.

"I'm fine," Kurt's fingers reached unconsciously to touch the scarf again, "Just a little distractible."

"It's been a long week—you've been studying every time I see you," Blaine's eyes were on the road but he smiled for Kurt and clapped a hand down on his knee, "Good thing it's Friday, right?"

Kurt nodded; tried to ignore how much he melted under the warmth of Blaine's hand against his leg.  _He's your friend; do not screw this up. Do not screw this up. Do. Not. Screw. This. Up._

When they pulled back into the lot out front of Blaine's dorm, they slipped and slid across the icy parking lot.

"Fuck," Blaine hissed when he nearly wiped out in front of the doors; his hands flailing out wildly to clamp down on Kurt's arm.

"I don't think I've ever heard you curse," Kurt quirked an eyebrow and patted a hand over Blaine's still locked around his elbow, "Not very dapper, Mr. Anderson."

"Shit, ass, damn, fucking shit Goddamn!" Blaine cried out, drawing a few glances from the scattering of students outside.

"Shh!" Kurt laughed despite himself.

Blaine grinned as they moved into the warmth of the front lobby, "I'm not always the pristine prep school guy, ya know."

"I know." Kurt waved pleasantly to a few boys he recognized as they made their way up the two flights of stairs to Blaine's floor.

Blaine smiled at him, "It seems like you're making some good friends here."

Kurt nodded, "People are wonderful here."

Blaine paused outside a door with a black 203 painted across the front, "You miss your McKinley friends though."

Kurt shrugged, "Yeah, I do…not much to be done for it though, is there?"

Blaine looked momentarily conflicted, but over what, Kurt wasn't sure.

"Are we going to go in or just stand out here?" Kurt finally glanced down toward Blaine's hand still resting on the doorknob when he couldn't stand holding his gaze any longer.

"Right, sorry," Blaine laughed and pushed the door open. He stepped aside to let Kurt through, "Bienvenue chez moi."

"Merci," Kurt gazed around the little space, "I never realized you had a single room."

Blaine closed the door behind him and looked around, too, "Gets a little lonely, but it gives some privacy."

"Lonely? You live in a building with all of your friends, Blaine." Kurt moved toward Blaine's desk to look at the pictures tacked to the corkboard behind it.

"I'm a social person," Blaine prodded Kurt in the side as he passed him, "and besides, you don't live here, so I don't live with  _all_  of my friends, right?"

Kurt blushed and he wasn't entirely sure why. His eyes drifted toward the closet, "From here I'm seeing a lot of navy and cardinal red, Blaine."

Blaine had draped his jacket across the back of a chair and was working at loosening the knot in his tie, "Hasty judgments, Mr. Hummel. You have my blessings to go pick through every single thing in there."

"Fine," Kurt went to the closet and pushed slowly through the hangers. He inspected each item he found carefully, "…Not too shabby; I'm impressed. You could do some great combinations with some of this stuff."

Blaine sat down on his bed and leaned back against the wall. He smiled at Kurt's back, "Feel free to create an outfit rotation for me."

Kurt looked over his shoulder with a smile, "I knew there was a reason I liked you."

Blaine raised an eyebrow, "Never mind my mind blowing charisma and stage presence."

"And humbleness." Kurt muttered. He pulled out a red cardigan and slid it over a houndstooth patterned polo and replaced the set in the closet before moving on to finding a pairing for a beige quarter zip sweater he actually kind of really wished he could borrow, "…where are your shoes?"

"My shoes?"

Kurt nodded without turning to look at Blaine, "You can't just put together a perfect outfit without matching your shoes, Blaine."

"Right corner on the floor in there," Blaine smiled at Kurt's back, "You really like this kind of stuff, don't you?"

"What gave me away?" Kurt rolled his eyes as he crouched down to peer at a stack of shoeboxes. No less than seven Sperry Topsider boxes stared back at him.

"You think you'll do something with it when you go to school?" Blaine stretched out across the mattress and tucked a hand behind his head.

Kurt sat up to face Blaine, "Hopefully… that or Broadway."

Blaine hummed in acknowledgement; his eyes trained on the ceiling.

Kurt opened the first shoebox and pulled out the shoe inside to inspect, "What about you? Any plans for a platinum album and co-produced songs with Ms. Perry?"

Blaine chuckled, "Maybe as a side project."

Kurt dropped the shoe back down into the box and replaced it with the rest, "What do you want to do then? Where do you want to be?"

"I'm not really sure," Blaine's eyes drifted over the expanse of the ceiling, "My parents are split in their thoughts on the whole thing. My mom likes Pennsylvania and business and my dad likes Columbia and law."

"What do you like?" Kurt pushed himself up off the floor and sat down at the end of the bed.

"Dunno… I can't really see myself as a lawyer, but I think I'd like Columbia…maybe I can compromise with a business major at Columbia… or business law at Columbia to mollify my dad a little more…"

Kurt shook his head, "No, I mean, if you could do anything at all, what would you want do?"

Blaine pushed himself up until his weight was resting on his elbows behind him; he blinked at Kurt, "I'm not sure… I guess I've never really thought about it."

"Sure you have," Kurt folded his legs underneath himself and twisted to face Blaine, " _Everyone_  thinks about that kind of stuff. What'd you want to do when you were seven?"

Blaine laughed, "I wanted to be a Pokémon trainer."

Kurt giggled, "Okay, lets try a different technique. I'll ask you questions and you say the first answer that pops into your head."

Blaine tilted his head thoughtfully, "Yeah, okay, why not?"

"Remember, just say whatever pops into your head. Don't think about it," Kurt sat up straighter, "Favorite color."

"Blue."

"Favorite actor."

"Brad Pitt."

Kurt rolled his eyes, "Favorite musical."

"Spring Awakening."

"Ser—" Kurt shook his head, "Favorite class."

"Lit."

"Where do you live?"

"Westerville."

"Where did you just go?"

"The mall."

"What'd you buy at the mall?"

"A scarf for you."

"What'd you eat for dinner?"

"Pizza."

"What do you want to be when you grow up?"

"An actor. Oh!" Blaine looked startled.

Kurt gave him a self-satisfied smirk when he met Blaine's eyes, "Told you."

Blaine sat up all the way. He shook his head and laughed as though he couldn't quite fathom his own words, "Well."

"Stage or cinema?" Kurt teased.

Blaine shook his head again, still smiling, "I can't be an actor—it goes on the same list as Pokémon trainer."

"Why?" Kurt pouted, "I'm sure you'd be wonderful."

"Things just aren't always that simple, Kurt," Blaine nudged Kurt's knee with his, "Maybe I'll come watch your shows, though."

"Why should I be able to do it and you can't?" Kurt pressed.

Blaine rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, "…if your dad were to not be supportive of your career choice, would you still be doing it?"

"Yes." Kurt answered without hesitation, but the look on Blaine's face made him wish he had at least paused. This was not the confident, smooth Blaine he was used to. The Blaine in front of him looked confused; envious…young.

Blaine held his gaze for a second longer and then looked down toward the bedspread, "Well then, I once again applaud your strength."

* * *

John let out a long sigh as he dropped his cell phone back down on his desk and massaged his fingers over his temples. The quiet notes of the piano drifted in through his half-open door. He glanced at his watch—still twenty minutes until his next conference call…he was debating pushing out his chair and wandering out of the office to go check on Blaine when the doorbell rang. The sound of the piano continued, so John deviated from his path to the family room to go to the front door. He pulled it open, fully expecting Trip or Kurt or one of the Warblers popping in to say hello yet again, but was instead greeted by a face he'd never seen. Even stranger, it was a girl.

She didn't miss a beat, she stuck out the hand that wasn't occupied by an oversized bag and smiled, "Hello, you must be Mr. Anderson. I'm Rachel Berry. I'm sure you've heard of me, but it's a pleasure to finally meet you in person. Is Blaine home?"

John blinked in surprise and shook her hand on autopilot, "Yes… yes, Blaine's mentioned you. Come in; he's in the family room."

Rachel tilted her head to listen to the notes still flowing through the house before moving toward the source, John trailing behind her.

His head was bent low; his shoulders relaxed as his fingers drifted over the keys. Much to his surprise, John recognized the notes, but before he could say anything, the song was over and Rachel was applauding.

Blaine twisted around on the bench at the sound, and his face immediately lit up with a smile, "Rachel!"

Rachel dropped her bag down onto the floor and practically ran across the room as Blaine pushed himself to his feet. He caught her in a tight hug and they spun around together; laughing happily.

She pressed a kiss to his cheek before pushing herself out of the embrace just far enough to look him over, "Almost two months without seeing you is absolutely intolerable."

"We've Skyped." Blaine smiled a little; rubbed his hands up and down her sides.

"It's not the same," Rachel pouted, "And Kurt comes home and he smells like you, and I get insanely jealous."

"That's creepy." Blaine frowned.

"It is not," Rachel wrapped her arms back around him again, "If you could hug yourself you'd understand, too. Nothing quite compares to hugs from Blaine Anderson."

Blaine laughed into her hair.

Rachel pulled out of the hug again to pout at him, "Aren't you going to tell me there's nothing like hugs from Rachel Berry?"

Blaine smiled, "I thought that went without saying."

"Finn needs to take lessons on charm from you," Rachel's eyes drifted up to the top of Blaine's head, "Your hair is still coming in nicely."

Blaine touched a hand to the top of his head as though to check for himself, "It's not really growing, but it's not falling out all that much either apart from a few places, so I won't complain."

Rachel hummed approvingly before finally pulling fully out of Blaine's arms to retrieve her bag.

John had watched the entire exchange, mesmerized into silence. Blaine met his eyes and motioned a hand to Rachel, "Dad, you met Rachel I take it?"

John shook his head to refocus, but then realized he looked like he was saying no. He cleared his throat, "Yes, I met her at the door."

"Sorry, I didn't even hear the doorbell. You didn't get interrupted from work, did you?"

"No, no; I'm between conference calls," John nodded toward the piano, "Sounded nice."

Blaine nodded his gratitude for the compliment.

"You played that at a piano recital when you were…" John mentally counted the years, "Ten."

"Nine." Blaine corrected. His eyes were on his right hand that had already resumed its usual motion.

John followed his gaze, "It's staying steady when you play."

"The faster the song and the more I've played it, the better… I never thought I'd be grateful for you and Mom making me practice so much as a kid." Blaine looked up from his hand to smile at his father.

"We had excellent foresight." John returned the smile. He wondered absently if the compliment was to make up for when Blaine had shouted at him in the kitchen that morning for asking about his medications.

Blaine sank down to the floor and leaned his back into the couch. He pulled the binder Rachel had dropped down onto the carpet into his lap and flipped through the pages carefully. He glanced up at Rachel, "Did you print the course list?"

An anxious frown touched the corners of Rachel's mouth, but she masked it quickly, "Yes, they're in the back folder—if you have a three hole punch, you can put them in."

Blaine searched her face quietly, "…did I already ask you about that?"

Rachel bit her lip and smoother an invisible wrinkle in her dress, "Well, only in passing really on the phone; it was a couple hours ago and then I started talking about Finn and Ohio State and—"

Blaine covered one of her hands with his, "It's okay. You don't have to make excuses for me; I just blank on short term things sometimes."

Rachel put her other hand over Blaine's and smiled, "Finn does it all the time, and he doesn't even have an excuse, but don't tell him I said that."

"Kurt says that, too," Blaine pulled his hand out from between Rachel's and slid his arm around her shoulders, "Here. Show me what I'm allowed to touch in this thing."

John watched them quietly—his son with an arm around a girl and her head tipped down against his shoulder. It was the image of how he had thought things were supposed to be; the picture perfect set up of what John had always imagined would be Blaine with a girlfriend.

Then again, no… this picture wasn't right either. Blaine's shaky hand; the patchy spot in his short hair... and there was something about the look of Rachel's tiny frame curled neatly into Blaine's somehow didn't look as right as it should, like maybe someone else belonged there… John cleared his throat again, "What are you two working on?"

"A surprise for Kurt," Blaine beamed down at the binder, "We're going to shove him out of the Lima nest."

There was something about the sentiment that softened something in John's heart. This girl—this girl who kissed Blaine's cheek and held his hand between both of hers—supported his relationship with another boy. Blaine had good friends; Blaine had a good boyfriend. There was a strange comfort in it, "How are you going to do that?"

"A lot of Google searches and some clamoring to get him a decent job." Blaine sighed.

Rachel looked up at John woefully, "Do you have any idea how limited the options are in Ohio for fostering the blossoming of a creative soul?"

John frowned, "There are a lot of job opportunities out there despite the recession—clerical work, restaurants, retail…didn't you say he's been working for his father this summer, Blaine?"

Blaine shook his head, "He can't work there for an entire year, and he can't just slave away as a waiter somewhere… He needs an outlet."

"An outlet?" John echoed.

Blaine nodded, his eyes still on the pages in front of him, "He needs to be challenged and he needs something to make him happy if he's going to be stuck here."

Rachel smiled at Blaine, "He has some _one_ to make him happy, but he does need something novel in his life. Something…. Fresh; creative."

"But everything needs either a degree or some sort of special training." Blaine sighed.

John glanced down at the binder and caught a glimpse of a familiar logo, "I see you have the Anthropologie internship in there; that would be a good thing for him it sounds like."

Blaine looked mournfully at the page, "It would be perfect for him, but they want design majors… we stuck it in there anyway in hopes that he could maybe at least work his way into something similar."

John hesitated for a moment, "… they're one of our main clients, you know."

Blaine nodded absently, "It's what made me think of it in the first place—you mentioned a meeting with some of their people last week at dinner."

"Good memory," Rachel smiled affectionately.

"Can I have a gold star sticker for my accomplishment?"

Rachel actually whipped out a sheet of shiny gold stickers from her bag and pressed one to Blaine's shirt. John would have smiled over the exchange—or maybe gaped at the strangeness of a girl who carried around a sheet of star stickers—but he was deep in thought, "… someone in their HR owes me a favor…I could talk to him and I'm sure he wouldn't mind pulling a few strings."

Blaine's smile disappeared as he looked up at his father in surprise, "You…you'd do that for me? ...For him?"

John nodded, "I don't see why not."

"Thanks, dad, that… it would mean a lot to me." The smile that bloomed over Blaine's face made John's heart ache—he wasn't sure if the hurt was out of guilt or out of pleasure for having created such a happy expression.

John nodded; cleared his throat, "I should get back to my office and get ready for that conference call. I'll call Jim afterwards and see what he can do."

Blaine was still looking at him with misty eyes and a half-smile, "We're going to head out as soon as we finish this—lunch date with Kurt, Quinn, and Finn."

"It's sort of like an intervention." Rachel added happily.

"An intervention to prevent potential future interventions when he loses his mind from being in Lima when even Puck is getting out," Blaine snorted.

John nodded, but then hesitated in the doorway, "If you feel like you need an, um, outlet, Blaine, you could always come work for me—we need someone to do some file work and the like. You could shadow at some meetings, too."

"I thought you wanted me to do law." Blaine scratched carefully at the side of his head.

"Nothing wrong with business—I work in business, don't I?" John smiled as he made his way out of the room.

"Yeah, I guess so… I'll think about it. Thanks again, Dad."

* * *

"Finally!" Finn sighed in relief when Rachel and Blaine approached their booth at the restaurant.

"We agreed on a halfway point to meet you guys, and you're still twenty minutes late." Quinn added, not glancing up from his menu.

"We had things to finish up." Rachel slid into the booth after Blaine and shared a conspiratorial smile with him.

Kurt handed his menu off to Blaine, "What kinds of things?"

"Important things," Rachel looked around at the others with the same knowing smirk she'd shared with Blaine.

Kurt rolled his eyes, "I'm sure."

An elderly waitress approached them; pen and paper already in hand, "Is this the rest of your party?"

"Yes, can we please, please, please order now?" Finn looked around at them all desperately.

"Finn, Rachel and Blaine haven't even opened the menu yet. You'll live another five minutes." Quinn glared hard at Finn.

"There's only one vegan option here, I don't need time to think about it," Rachel pushed her menu toward the waitress.

Finn caught Kurt's death glare and managed to mumble, "Blaine? Do you need a minute?"

"No, go ahead," Blaine didn't look up from his menu, "You start and I'll go last."

They made their way quickly around the table, the waitress nodding down at her pad of paper. She looked up when she reached Blaine, "What about you, honey, do you know what you want?"

"Umm…" Blaine scanned over the menu again.

"Their chili is awesome, man; like, better than my mom's." Finn prompted.

Blaine smiled up at the waitress as he handed over the menu, "I'll trust Finn's judgment."

The waitress' eyes lingered on Blaine's face, "Can I get you anything else? Soda? Water?"

"Water would be great, thank you."

"I'll go put your orders in, and I'll be right back out with that water, dear," The waitress offered Blaine one more smile before disappearing into the kitchen.

"Blaine's always the favorite. I bet she'll give him his water for free." Finn grumbled.

"Water's always free, idiot," Kurt rolled his eyes before nudging Blaine's foot under the table, "And of course he's the favorite."

"Only second to you," Blaine winked.

The waitress returned with water for Blaine and after asking yet again if he or any of the others needed anything else, she disappeared again.

Rachel spread her napkin across her lap and smoothed it down happily, "Isn't it nice we could get together before the fall?"

"We still have plans in the works for a goodbye dinner with all of our friends," Kurt covered his mouth to stifle a yawn.

"Yes, but I think this group is special," Rachel pushed, "Quinn and I are off on our great New York adventure—"

"Do you really need to rub it in?" Kurt smiled good-naturedly.

"You have a big year in front of you, too. We're all done with high school; there are all kinds of things in store for us.  _All_  of us." Rachel smiled around at the others yet again, "Actually, that's the reason we invited you to lunch today. There are some things we want to talk about with you."

Kurt narrowed his eyes at them, "This feels like some sort of bizarre intervention. What's going on?"

Blaine nodded at Rachel, "You tell. I'll screw it up."

"Well, Quinn mentioned something to me—an idea of sorts—that I thought was wonderfully inspired, so when Blaine and I had our much needed phone time together a couple weeks ago, we got to talking about it, too," Rachel was practically bursting with self-satisfaction, "And then I talked to Finn about it, and we all came to the same conclusion."

Kurt looked at her in irritated confusion, "What is 'it'? What conclusion?"

Rachel folded her hands on the table and beamed, "We decided you can't work at your dad's tire shop."

"And you can't just stay home for a year." Finn added.

Rachel nodded, "So we started doing some research."

Kurt looked down when Rachel slid a pink three-ringed binder across the tabletop. He raised a disdainful eyebrow when he inspected the front cover—a painfully decorated thing with gold star stickers and print written in, what smelled like, cherry-scented marker, "'Kurt Hummel's Grand Year in Columbus'?"

Blaine made a face at Rachel, "That wasn't the title we agreed on."

Rachel frowned at Blaine before lighting up with another smile when she met Kurt's eyes, "Despite our differences in opinion on creative decisions, Blaine and I did agree that we needed to help open your eyes to opportunities you have right here in Ohio until you two join Quinn and me in New York."

Kurt eyed her cynically, "What?"

Blaine motioned a hand at the binder, "Just look."

Kurt opened the front cover and paged slowly through the papers inside, his brow furrowing more and more until he mentally kicked himself for potentially causing premature wrinkles. He relaxed his face as he looked back up at the others, "These are job applications and classes at Ohio State…"

Blaine bobbed his head up and down, "Options."

"Ideas." Rachel agreed.

Kurt blinked, "These are all in Columbus; that's a long drive."

This time it was Finn who looked pleased with himself; he sat up straighter and grinned, "I've been talking to our parents about maybe helping you out paying for an apartment in the city, and they think they can swing the cost if you get a roommate or something."

Kurt looked between them all, feeling strangely light headed, "I'm not enrolled at the university…"

Finn nodded again, "I e-mailed my counselor and she said you could probably get in as a part time student if you send in your application stuff because of, um…"

"Extenuating circumstances." Blaine supplied.

Rachel beamed at him, "Excellent word finding."

"Don't patronize." Blaine scowled at her.

"Another good word." Rachel patted his hand.

"Rachel that's not how it—" Blaine cut himself off and shook his head before turning his attention back to Kurt, "Well, what do you think?"

Kurt blinked at him.

Blaine leaned across the table and flipped to a page in the binder. He pointed down at the text, "They have fashion design classes, see? You could add it to your resume for when you reapply in New York…and look at this—"

Kurt watched Blaine's fingers fumble with another few sheets before he was pointing again, "You can get an internship doing the displays for Anthropologie… I know it's not fashion, but you're creative, and it's sort of like that, right?"

Kurt blinked at the paper before slowly flipping through the pages again. Job options; class lists; an application for Ohio State; a list of apartment potentials. He looked back up at the others in a daze, "…You did all this without telling me?"

Blaine's expression went from anxious to crushed, "I'm sorry, we weren't trying to go behind your back, we just—"

Blaine let out a frustrated sigh and looked to Rachel for help, "It's actually lost this time."

She covered his hands with one of hers and gave him a reassuring smile before looking back at Kurt, "We want to see you happy."

Quinn had remained silent through the entire conversation; her arms folded loosely across her chest and her eyes watching Kurt carefully. When she spoke, her voice was soft, "You shine too bright to just stay in Lima, Kurt."

Kurt shook his head; tried to swallow down the tears he could feel forming in his eyes, "I—I wasn't angry you did it, I just had no idea— thank you. For doing all this, you really didn't have—"

Blaine smiled; reached across the table again to squeeze one of Kurt's hands in his, "You deserve taking care of, too, you know."

The waitress returned; a tray filled with plates balanced precariously on her arm.

Kurt pushed the binder down onto his lap to make room on the table and conversation drifted to plans for a larger scale lunch with all of their friends before people left for school or work in the fall.

` "Maybe you'll have picked one of our amazing life options from the binder by then." Rachel motioned a hand toward the edge of the binder peaking out from Kurt's knees.

Kurt took a bite of his salad and chewed thoughtfully before speaking, "I think I like the Anthropologie idea… remember when we watched them make the Christmas display a couple years ago, Blaine?"

Blaine was spitting something into his napkin, but he nodded.

"Something wrong with your food, sweetheart?" The waitress paused at their table as she passed again; an anxious frown on her face as she stared at Blaine.

"No, everything's fine," Blaine blushed and waved her concern away before adding, "But thank you."

"Are you sure?" Her eyes flickered from his hat to his fork and then back to his eyes.

He nodded wordlessly.

"All right, well if you change your mind, just let me know. It wouldn't be a problem to make you something different…"

"Thank you." Blaine offered her a strained smile until she finally turned to walk away.

An awkward lull fell over the table.

Blaine glanced around at them, his eyes lingering longer on Kurt, before offering an awkward smile, "Everything tastes like hairspray."

Quinn cringed, "That's awful."

Finn looked down at his own plate thoughtfully. He picked up the dinner roll and held it out toward Blaine, "My mom says plain stuff is good for when you're stomach's weird. Maybe it's the same for bad tastes."

"Finn you really don't have to—"

"If you don't take it, I'm going to call the waitress over here and let her get the kitchen to make you your own bread from scratch." Finn cut him off smoothly.

"Thank you," Blaine laughed quietly before taking the offered bread. He glanced at the waitress as she once again passed their table, "I came in here once after a doctor's appointment with my parents. My mom started crying in the middle of the meal and we had that same waitress; I think she remembers me."

Kurt glanced over his shoulder at the waitress before looking back at Blaine, "Why was your mom crying after a doctor's appointment?"

Blaine sighed, "It was my first one after getting out of the hospital. She got emotional, I guess, I don't know."

"My dads are already crying about me leaving and I don't go for another twenty two days and—" Rachel glanced at the clock on the wall, "Three hours."

Quinn looked incredulous, "We have a set hour?"

"Of course we do," Rachel launched into an explanation on timing and the length of the drive and something about destiny, but Kurt wasn't listening. His eyes were focused on Blaine tearing apart the dinner roll into small and smaller pieces.

Quinn glanced at Kurt and followed his gaze to Blaine before smoothly cutting Rachel off, "Rachel, switch seats with Kurt."

"What, Quinn, I—"

"You're going to give Blaine a headache and no one else can hold a conversation when you're shouting across the table. Trade places with Kurt."

Rachel let out a exasperated sigh before getting up and stalking around Finn's chair to take the seat in the booth beside Quinn. The second she was seated, she was talking again.

Kurt slipped into the seat beside Blaine and switched his and Rachel's plates before whispering in Blaine's ear, "If they kill each other in the city, I'm going to feel a little bit responsible since I set this whole thing up."

Blaine smiled over at the girls, "They'll do fine. They're more similar than they know."

Kurt glanced at the bread growing smaller and smaller in Blaine's hands; he squeezed his knee gently underneath the table, "How's the bread going?"

Blaine shrugged and motioned at the binder still on Kurt's lap, "You like it? You're really not mad?"

"Try a bite of food and then I'll think about answering you." Kurt gave Blaine a pointed look.

Blaine rolled his eyes but stuck a piece of the shredded bread into his mouth. He motioned an expectant hand at Kurt while he chewed.

Kurt nodded his approval, "To answer the previous questions: I love it and of course I'm not angry; why would I be angry?"

Blaine swallowed down the piece of bread and stirred his straw in his glass of water idly, "You like to be in control of things. You've always lived by the plans you created by yourself…. I didn't know how you'd feel about us giving you options for how to run your life."

"Technically I don't have to do any of it," Kurt smiled a little, "…I'll admit, I would have never thought of this on my own."

Blaine smiled hopefully, "So you're actually going to think about some of it?"

Kurt squeezed Blaine's knee a little tighter, "Of course I will. We're not exactly ones for living for the expected anymore, are we?"

"Guess not," Blaine slid in just a little closer to Kurt's side until their legs were flush with one another—the warmth of his skin mixing with Kurt's.

Kurt took another bite of his salad; he glanced over at Rachel and Quinn who had quieted to a more normal conversational volume before looking back at Blaine, "What about you?"

"What about me?" Blaine flexed his fingers experimentally on his lap.

"What're you going to do?"

Blaine shrugged, "Visit you; babysit Trip; play Fur Elise on the piano until my parents threaten to stop paying for chemo if I don't stop."

"Blaine, that's a horrible thing to say," Kurt laughed despite himself, "I mean it though; do you have plans?"

Blaine dropped the remaining bit of bread down onto his plate, "I don't know… my dad offered for me to come work at his office—file stuff and deliver letters and that sort of thing. I could put it on a resume or something when I reapply for school."

Kurt frowned, "That doesn't sound very exciting."

"Yeah, well, taking gen eds and Accounting 101 at NYU wouldn't have held much of a thrill either," Blaine shook his head when Kurt offered him a bite of his salad, "It's not like I'm making a huge trade off."

Kurt traced a finger around the raised outline of a sticker on the binder, "… maybe you could try some acting classes."

Blaine laughed, "Acting classes? Why would I do that?"

"Because it's something you love," Kurt prodded a spinach leaf with his fork, "and I thought maybe, since we're being people who don't adhere to plans, you might want to rethink your major when we go to the city."

"My dad's not going to pay for me to be a theater major, Kurt, I have wiggle room to switch, but not that much," Blaine lifted a hand and listed on his fingers, "Accounting, business law, finance, pre-law or…. There's one more, but acting wasn't it."

"He's been coming around a lot more though, hasn't he? You said he's been trying harder," Kurt insisted, "Maybe if you talked to him—"

Blaine's fist coming down hard on the table startled everyone into silence, "It's not going to happen, Kurt."

Kurt met Rachel's eyes briefly before speaking, his voice quiet, "Okay, I didn't mean to push it, just… it's an option, right?"

Blaine looked tired, "I guess."

"Girls, what weekend were you thinking Puck and I could come out to visit?" Finn spoke quickly and Kurt was fairly sure they'd never made plans for a weekend trip, but he was grateful for the attempt to take his and Blaine's conversation off of center stage.

"Even if you just took a workshop through the theater or something," Kurt put his fork down on the plate; no longer hungry, "It might be nice."

"I don't think my memory's much good for it anyway, Kurt. Chemo makes me…" Blaine motioned a hand beside his head, "… fuzzy. It's just not in the cards for me right now… why are you suddenly so set on this, anyway?"

"You're the one making me entire binders of ideas for what to do with myself this year, aren't you?" Kurt waved the binder in the air as proof, "Why can't I throw an idea out there for you?"

"I'm not saying you can't, but we've known for a long time what sort of career path I was headed down," Blaine's fingers skimmed the side of Kurt's hand, "What's with the sudden push for this stuff again?"

"This  _stuff_  is what makes you light up, Blaine. Anyone who's ever seen you perform can see that," Kurt's gaze moved down to the cherry red curve of an 'm' on the binder cover, "…I just want to know you're happy."

Blaine slid his fingers more fully around Kurt's hand, "Hey, look at me."

Kurt's eyes drifted up to meet Blaine's.

Blaine smiled; squeezed his hand tighter, "I am happy, okay? Ridiculously, head over heels happy."

"You're not  _that_ happy." Kurt wrinkled his nose.

"Not all day or even every day," Blaine kissed the worry line in Kurt's forehead, "But a lot of the time, I truly am."

Kurt leaned into Blaine's arm and pushed the binder open to scan through the pages yet again, "Good. Lets keep it that way."

Blaine watched Kurt read through the papers and tried to read his facial expression; all the while questions stirred and grew inside his head,  _"Are you happy, Kurt? Do I make you happy?"_

The question burned so hot in his mind, he was a little surprised when it didn't come pouring out when he thanked the waitress as he handed off the shiny plastic AmEx card and asked her to charge both his and Kurt's meal to his card.

"Always the gentleman," Kurt sighed; kissed Blaine's cheek, "What would I do without you?"

And all at once Blaine knew why he could keep that stupid question from slipping out. He doesn't want to know. He can't bear to know.

There wasn't an answer Kurt could give that wouldn't break Blaine's heart.


	22. Chapter 20

Blaine stood awkwardly in the doorway, but he smiled brightly when the boy in the bed looked up at him, "Hi."

His hair was wet with sweat and sticking to his too pale forehead. He wrapped his arms tight around his middle and hunched low over himself; like all of his effort was going into keeping his organs in place and simultaneously glaring at Blaine.

Blaine moved farther into the room, "I was over yesterday for a bit, I don't know if you remember or not, but I'm Bl—"

"I know who you are." The boy snapped. He let one hand slide out to pull the blanket farther up over his knees.

Blaine sat down on the edge of the bed, "You look like you're feeling a little better than yesterday."

"Yeah, I feel like a million bucks," He scowled at him; his lips trembled a little; his teeth clicked together in a barely suppressed tremor.

"Sorry," Blaine smiled faintly, "… do you like being called Trip or is their something else that people call you that you prefer?"

Trip drew his knees up to his chest and hugged his arms around his shins, "Fucking faggot comes to mind as a fan favorite, but feel free to stick with Trip."

Blaine cringed, "I know how much that stuff can hurt and—"

"Why are you back here?" Trip pulled his legs in even closer to his chest; his shoulders twitched with a muted shudder.

"You gave me the boot pretty fast yesterday, so I didn't really get to explain my reason for coming over," Blaine motioned a hand between them, "I heard you're going to be joining us at Dalton for your senior year, so I thought I'd stop by so we could actually meet face to face…maybe talk a little."

"Well we've met and we've chatted, haven't we?" Trip tried to hold his glare, but he looked nauseous, "You think you can find the door without instructions?"

Blaine drew his legs up to sit cross-legged on the end of the bed, "I thought we could talk a bit more."

"And why the hell would I want to do that?" Trip hugged his arms tighter around his shins.

"Because I know what it's like to be in your position." Blaine's smile finally faltered.

Trip looked Blaine over cynically, "You don't look like the drug doing type."

"Neither do you, but, you're right, I haven't ever done anything like that," Blaine admitted with a slow nod, "But I  _was_  the type to try and find a way to escape when things got bad…. It's why I transferred to Dalton."

"Who said I'm trying to escape anything?"

"I got the shit kicked out of me at my old school by guys I don't think I'd ever interacted with more than one of them cheating off me in biology," Blaine looked down at his lap, "I don't think anyone can blame you for feeling the way you do about things…I can't imagine the kind of hurt you must have felt having your friends—"

"Listen, you—"Trip opened his mouth to respond, but his face was suddenly ashy; his shoulders tense.

"Oh, uh—" Blaine scrambled off the bed and grabbed the trashcan from beside the door. He barely got it to the bedside before Trip lurched himself over it. Blaine held the trashcan flush with the side of the bed and looked toward the door; he hated seeing people throw up. When Trip stopped gagging, Blaine set the wastebasket down tentatively, "I'll just leave that here in case you need it again."

Trip ignored him. He lay down on his side; curled his legs in against his stomach.

Blaine spied a half-filled water bottle beside a plate of untouched toast on the nightstand. He picked it up and held it out to Trip, "You wanna rinse your mouth out?"

Trip pushed himself up on an elbow and took the bottle with a shaky hand. He tipped it to his mouth, but his eyes remained on Blaine's face. He spat a mouthful of water into the trashcan before fixing Blaine with another glare; "You're feeling pretty damn great about yourself right now, aren't you?"

Blaine startled at the words, "I—"

"You're feeling like the fucking greatest person ever," Trip balled a handful of his sheets into his fist, "Blaine Anderson, fucking gay super hero and mentor extraordinaire, here to save Trip Morgan from his evil vices and redeem him to a singing and dancing private school-going happy go lucky kid. Do I about have it, or am I leaving anything out?"

Blaine smiled weakly, "My boyfriend would appreciate your candor."

"You and the fucking boyfriend. You brought him up yesterday, too." Trip sneered.

Blaine ignored the venom in Trip's voice; his smile turned bashful, "Sorry, I tend to get chatty about him, and I wasn't sure you'd remember me saying anything about him, so I—"

"I'm in withdrawal, not suffering from Alzheimer's, idiot." Trip dragged a hand through his hair, apparently suddenly aware of his perpetual bed head, but it had little effect at taming it.

"Right, sorry," Blaine nodded quickly, but then smiled, "You're going to have to forgive _my_ poor memory, but did I show you his picture?"

"If I say yes will you spare me from having to watch you gush about Rainbow Brite number two?" Trip's glare intensified when Blaine sat back down on the end of the bed and fished his wallet out of his pocket.

"Here he is," Blaine held the picture out for Trip to take.

Trip ignored Blaine's extended hand and stared at his face instead. His fury melted to irritated confusion, "You're not one for taking hints, are you?"

Blaine laughed, "I can be pretty thickheaded… both intentionally and unintentionally."

"Attractive, charming, and just self-deprecating enough as to appear humble," Trip rolled his eyes, "You must be the cat's pajamas at your little prep school."

"I'm lead soloist for the Warblers, too, don't forget that." Blaine retracted his hand and smoothed the crease line in the picture idly, "Listen, Trip, I'm here because my aunt told me about you, and your story struck a chord. I know what it is to feel hopeless, and I've seen others struggle with it, too. I wanted you to there are people out there—good people—who want to see good things happen for you."

Trip let out an incredulous snort, but before he could say anything, Blaine was shaking his head.

"I know you don't know me and I don't know you but—"

"You're right. You don't know me." Trip fixed Blaine with another cold glare.

Blaine looked down at the picture in his hands and sighed, "I know you're hurting, Trip, and I know you're lonely, but I want you to know you're not alone."

"Did you ever think about the fact that maybe I prefer to go it alone?" Trip sat up straighter to look Blaine more fully in the face.

"Everyone needs someone to lean on, Trip."

"Well sometimes you lean and people let you fall on your fucking face," Trip glowered at Blaine, "I don't want anyone else."

Blaine remained quiet for a long minute, staring down at his lap. When he finally looked back up, Trip was still glaring at him, "I know you don't want to be friends, but… Could I stick around for a bit?"

Trip barked out a short laugh, "Excuse me?"

"It's hell at my aunt and uncle's house right now—big family thing and ninety percent of them are the ultra-conservative, lets-see-if-this-is-the-year-we-can-turn-Blaine-straight variety."

Trip blinked, "They try to turn you straight?"

Blaine smiled; shrugged, "Subtlety is the key. Little mentions about daughters of people they know at Crawford Country Day—that's Dalton's all-girls' sister school back in Ohio—they also take pleasure in making comments about how many girls I must have chasing me. I think the hope is that if they say it enough, I'll forget I'm gay and just start dating women."

"Hm." Trip studied Blaine with a frown.

"…So, what do you say? Can I hang out here for a bit?" Blaine folded his hands into a prayer position, "Please?"

Trip stared at Blaine for a moment longer before looking down to his knees. He nodded slowly, "…yeah, okay."

 

* * *

"You sure about this, Kurt?" Burt crossed his arms as he watched Kurt scurry around his bedroom.

 

"What's there not to be sure about? I'm going to meet up with the guy, and if it doesn't work out, then it doesn't work out," Kurt pulled on a sweater, wrinkled his nose at his reflection, and abandoned it to his bed before trying on another.

"I mean you chose to list some stuff in that classified that might make people a little uneasy and maybe they'll wanna lash out… I think I should go with you."

"Oh my God, Dad," Kurt stopped in his hunt for the perfect sweater to give his father a withering look, "First off, I chose to list I was gay to  _avoid_ the whole I-ended-up-with-a-raging-homophobe-for-a-roommate thing. Second, we're meeting at the Lima Bean, it's not like it's the easiest place to brutally beat or murder someone. And third, the last three people who have answered the ad have been Trip every single time, so chances are, even though I told him to go pick up Blaine and bring him over, it'll be him thinking he's being funny  _again."_

"Putting an awful lot of effort into picking out an outfit if you just think it's that Trip kid." Burt grumbled.

"I'm going out in public, and if I'm going to be dragged away by the police and have my picture taken for the papers because I murdered Trip with a stirring stick, then I want to look good." Kurt pivoted from side to side in front of his mirror; finally pleased with his shirt choice.

"Just be safe, alright?" Burt sighed.

Kurt bit back the urge to say anything particularly nasty and instead replaced the words with a tight smile, "Sure thing, Dad. Go to work."

"We're gonna miss you around the shop, ya know; no one organizes paperwork better than you do." Burt called over his shoulder as he made his way down the stairs.

"No one sorts paperwork at all other than me." Kurt called back. He checked his reflection one more time; tried on four pairs of shoes, and finally made his way down the steps as quickly as he could. He was definitely going to be late.

The parking lot in front of the Lima Bean was nearly empty, not that Kurt could really blame anyone for not wanting a coffee in the middle of August. Even he was tempted to throw on a t-shirt and shorts for a little relief from the humidity and heat that seemed to rise up off the pavement as he made his way to the front door. Kurt took comfort in the soft wave of artificially cool air laced with the scent of coffee that hit his face as he stepped through the door. He glanced around curiously.

He'd been fortunate, he thought, to be contacted by someone who had actually suggested the Lima Bean as a meeting place rather than Trip's usual suggested places anywhere from fifteen minutes outside Columbus to half an hour in the opposite direction.

Kurt scanned the few patrons slowly—his could-be roommate had promised to wear a red baseball cap for easy identification. Kurt spied a blue hat, but the owner of it was already sitting with a woman and chattering amicably. Another set of women sat together at the table nearest the counter, and an elderly couple was seated near the window. There was no one in a red hat to be found.

Kurt glanced at his phone—12:08. He was late, but apparently his contact was even later. With little else to do, Kurt made his way to the register to order. He recognized the barista immediately, "Emily, hi."

"Hey, Kurt!" The blonde behind the counter smiled brightly at him, "It's been awhile since I saw you in here."

"I'm surprised you see anyone in here in this weather," Kurt motioned a hand toward the door, "I'm supposed to be meeting up with someone today otherwise I'm not sure I could have convinced myself to come in for coffee."

"You couldn't just stop in to see your favorite barista? We have air conditioning and iced coffee," She pouted at him, "Not to mention the fact that I practically set you and Blaine up."

"You sold us coffee." Kurt snorted.

"I gave you free refills so you could sit around and talk for five hours at a time."

"The refills are always free, Emily."

"No they're not. They're supposed to cost forty five cents." She folded her arms across her chest with a self-satisfied smirk.

Kurt blinked, "They… they are?"

She shrugged, "Told you. I am the reason you have a boyfriend."

"Why, though? You've cost the Lima Bean at least five million dollars in unpaid for coffee for us," Kurt slid his hand into his pocket to fish out his debit card.

"I liked watching you two. You're nauseatingly cute, so don't you dare try to pay me back for any of them. Whatever you get today is on me, too, if you fill me in on what's going on in your life," Her smile suddenly looked a little more sad, "How's Blaine doing?"

"All right; he misses the Lima Bean," Kurt smiled, "I'll bring him by next week sometime—it's supposed to rain on Monday, we can come cozy up then."

"How about you, ready for New York?"

"Not going," Kurt shook his head, but then, upon seeing the momentarily distraught look on her face, he added, "I'm moving to Columbus for the year. I just got a job as a design intern for Anthropologie and I'm going to take a couple classes at the university."

"That'll be fun," She bobbed her head up and down, apparently mollified by his response.

Kurt nodded too; looked around the coffee shop again, "I'm supposed to be meeting with a potential roommate today, actually, but I don't see him yet. Have you seen anyone in here in a red hat?"

Emily looked thoughtful before slowly shaking her head, "Not that I remember. What do you want to drink while you wait?"

"You mentioned iced coffee?" Kurt smiled and wrinkled his nose, "Is it a good thing? Because it just sounds like cold coffee to me, which is absolutely disgusting."

"I'll come up with something good for you, I promise." She smiled and turned to the back counter to begin creating a drink that involved ice and a bottle of something strangely red. Kurt accepted the finished beverage and took a seat at a table where he could easily watch the door.

He sipped at his drink—some sort of iced tea, he decided—and gazed around at the other patrons. He recognized a few—the elderly couple to his left were definitely regulars, as was a woman reading in the back corner, and Kurt wondered idly if they recognized him, too; if they wondered where his usual coffee companion was that day…he turned his gaze back toward the front door when he heard the automated ping that went off whenever it opened.

He felt a momentary sense of joy when his eyes zoned in on the red hat on a head far too high off the ground to be Trip, but his happiness dwindled to confusion as he studied the person underneath it. It had to be a mistake.

Still, the person stood awkwardly in the door; gazed around at the patrons just as Kurt had done when he first arrived. When his eyes landed on Kurt's face, he looked just as taken aback as Kurt felt.

"Hum—I mean, Kurt, are you… You're Kurt H.?"

Kurt blinked, "And you're…you're David K."

"Who did you think it would be when you saw David K.?" Karofsky looked almost panicked.

Kurt frowned at him, "Who did  _you_ think you were responding to when you saw Kurt H.?"

"I dunno, I thought—I never thought it was gonna be  _you._ " He glanced around the shop quickly as though he feared running into another familiar face.

"Relax, David, there's not that many ex-football players coming in here looking for a nice cup of tea and a quiet place to read." Kurt folded his arms across his chest and sat back in his chair.

Karofsky had the decency to blush as he sank down into the chair across from Kurt, "I…why are you looking for a roommate in Columbus?"

"I'm moving." Kurt replied shortly, "Why are you?"

Karofsky pulled his hat off his head; fiddled with it idly between both hands, "I need to get out of here. I need to…to start over."

"So you're moving two hours east?" Kurt quirked an eyebrow.

David shrugged, "It's a start."

Kurt studied him quietly, "You need a fresh start, and you answered a roommate wanted ad for someone who explicitly said they were—"

"Shhh!" David looked around the shop quickly. He lowered his voice, "I…yeah, I did."

"I'm kind of getting mixed signal here, Dave. You want some big clean slate thing, but I say one little word in a coffee shop full of strangers and you freak."

"That's why I want this," David clenched his hat between his hands and looked at Kurt intently, "I don't want to deal with the looks and the whispers and… I want to be myself without—"

"Without being mocked day in and day out? Without people ridiculing you for just being you?" Kurt fixed Karofsky with a cold glare, "Gee, that  _would_  be a nice luxury, wouldn't it?"

"I—" David blinked and Kurt felt like they were suddenly back in the halls of McKinley; David walking him to class looking torn and confused, "I know I can't change what I did to you, Kurt. I really, really wish I could take it back—I wish it everyday…it…I'm really sorry."

Kurt was silent. He studied the condensation beading on the outside of his cup for a long minute until he heard the scrape of David's chair against the ground. He tore his gaze from his cup to look up at David who was pushing himself to his feet, "You're leaving?"

Karofsky looked down at his feet, "Well, yeah… I mean this obviously wasn't what either one of us were expecting…I'm sorry for wasting your time."

Kurt bit his lip. His thoughts moved fast—too fast for him to really process, "David, wait."

Karofsky turned to face Kurt again, his expression still lined with guilt.

"Sit back down, Dave." Kurt folded his hands in his lap; studied David quietly.

Slowly, David slid back into his chair. He stared at Kurt; his features moving from guilty to anxious, "What?"

"Have you come out to your parents yet?"

Karofsky flinched, "No… not yet."

"To anyone?"

"You… Santana." David mumbled.

Kurt traced a finger down the side of his cup idly, "Your dad seems like a fairly accepting person, Dave."

"I know he is, I just…" David nodded his head slowly, "I'll tell him…soon…I just don't know what he'll think if it's…if it's me, ya know? It's okay when it's some stranger on the street, but if it's his kid…"

"He might feel differently," Kurt finished, nodding, "It's a scary thing. It's a big thing."

David let out a long breath, "Yeah."

"Would you consider telling him when you moved in?"

"Moved in?" David blinked.

"With me. In Columbus." Kurt held his gaze carefully.

"Wait a sec," David's eyes went wide, "You…you're saying you actually want us to live together? Like…like you and me?"

"Us generally constitutes the same thing as you and me," Kurt stirred his straw; listened to the ice cubes in his cup click against one another, "And I need to ask you some questions first, you don't just get to automatically cohabitate with me. I have standards."

"Um…yeah, okay," David relaxed a little in his seat, "Go ahead and ask then."

Kurt studied David for another minute before pulling his bag onto his lap. He pulled out a stapled packet of papers and a pen and slid them across the table, "Fill out the questionnaire and let me know when you're finished, so I can read through your answers and we can talk about them."

David's eyes went wide, "A questionnaire? You made a questionnaire for potential roommates?"

Kurt nodded pertly, "Blaine's coming over in a couple hours, so I'd appreciate it if you'd get started so I can get home early enough to change before he shows up."

David glanced at Kurt's outfit and then down at the papers. With a sigh, he uncapped the pen and set to work.

Kurt sipped at his drink and watched David work. He met Emily's eyes briefly, but she only looked at Dave and raised her eyebrows in surprise.

"How do I answer the favorite musical question if I've never seen a musical?"

"You write that you would love for me to provide you with a crash course on Broadway culture and also supply you with a set of burned CDs." Kurt sighed.

As David set back to work, sighing and grumbling as he wrote, Kurt studied him quietly.

Blaine wouldn't like it. His father would be furious—he might even threaten not to pay rent. Kurt didn't know how to feel. He'd buried the hatchet on his and David's differences a long time ago, but living with him…

"Done."

Kurt eyed David warily, "That was fast."

"I was honest; it's easy to answer questions when you don't spend a lot of time bullshitting people." David smiled just a little as he slid the packet back across the table to Kurt.

Kurt took it and scanned over the first page. He let out a thoughtful hum.

"What?" Karofsky shifted nervously in his chair.

"Nothing; nothing," Kurt took a drink from his cup; flipped the page; hummed again.

"Would you cut it out? You're making me nervous." Karofsky snapped.

Kurt glanced up from the papers, "You really want to live with me so badly that you're getting anxious about it?"

David flushed red; his gaze dropped down to the hat still in his lap. He worried his thumb over the bill, "Look, Kurt, I've done a lot of stupid stuff, and I know you and me aren't friends and you don't owe me jack shit, but... you—"

David paused; glanced up at Kurt and then looked back down at his lap, "You make me want to…to do better or be better or… or something. I think… I think you and me could do okay if you're willing to give it the chance."

Kurt still had a page left to read of David's answers. He rubbed his thumb over the staple between the pages and regarded David in silence. Finally, he put the packet back in its folder and replaced the whole thing in his bag. He folded his hands on the table, "What about your friends?"

David snorted, "What friends?"

"Your football cronies," Kurt looked at David pointedly, "What do you plan on telling them?"

"They know that I'm moving," David shrugged, "My dad runs a construction company; they need workers at some of their sites in Columbus."

"So you won't tell them about your potential living arrangements." Kurt spoke without contempt; his gaze moving over David's face curiously.

David let a long breath out of his nose, "I… I was kind of planning on just cutting ties with them once I was out of here, so… no, I wouldn't tell them where I was living…and that goes for whether it was with you or anywhere else. Some of them aren't leaving Lima and I don't need them trying to crash on my couch every time they wants to come party on campus."

Kurt lifted his cup; took a drink.  _'I trust your judgment'_  his father had said the day he ran the ad,  _'this is your decision.'_  Kurt wondered absently how much his father would still trust his judgment if he knew what was going through his head right now… "You're going to have to sign the lease."

David sat up straighter; nodded quickly.

"And pay your half of rent and utilities on time every month."

"Of course." David bobbed his head up and down again.

"And if you are messy, cruel, or otherwise overly jock like, so help me, I will kick your ill-fitting, bargain bin jean clad ass to the curb."

"My jeans fit fine." David smiled a little.

"Your jeans are a size and a half too big for you."

"Jeans don't come in half sizes."

"Tailors, David."

"Suits get tailored, not jeans."

Kurt scoffed, "God, I have a lot to teach you."

"So…" David wrung his hat between his hands; a hopeful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, "Is that a yes?"

Kurt fixed his already perfect hair with a quick flick of his fingers over the side of it, "Under one condition."

"Name it."

"You have to come formally make your case to my dad."

"You want me to die, don't you?"

 

* * *

"D'you know your front door's unlocked?" Trip leaned in the doorway and studied Blaine at the kitchen table, "Also, your neighbor is the most extreme anti-smoking individual I've ever met. She yelled at me from her porch across the street."

 

"Her husband died of lung cancer; she's touchy about the smoking thing," Blaine mumbled. He didn't look up from the tabletop.

"Mm," Trip took a step in closer to look down at Blaine's project. He eyed the picture cards before quirking an eyebrow, "What's this?"

"Shh." Blaine flailed a hand toward Trip, his eyes still glued to the cards. The automated blip of a timer pierced the air and Blaine set to work flipping the cards over and snatching a pad of paper from the other side of the table.

Trip frowned and took the seat across from him.

Blaine grunted his frustration when he dropped the pencil, but then he was back to scribbling furiously across the page.

"Do I even want to know?" Trip leaned his chair back until it creaked with the sudden strain of weight on only two legs.

Blaine didn't respond, but his pencil was suddenly still. He shut his eyes tight. He rested his forehead against the heel of his free hand; murmured under his breath, "Come on… come on, you know this…"

Trip watched him in silence then; let the legs of his chair slip back to the ground as quietly as possible.

Blaine suddenly threw his pencil down. It hit the tabletop hard and ricocheted down to the floor, "God damn it!"

Trip leaned forward on the table to study Blaine's handiwork, "You're trying to remember the cards?"

Blaine rubbed his temples in a show of sudden weariness, "And failing miserably."

Trip leaned over and groped under the table until he found the pencil. He dropped it back down beside Blaine's hand, "Your memory's not all that bad—you got five of them. Your handwriting, however, is absolute shit."

"Thanks for the encouragement." Blaine mumbled. He dragged the cards in closer to him again and studied the pictures intently.

"What you need is to chill out a bit. I wouldn't remember shit either if I was as uptight as you've been the past few weeks," Trip sat back in his chair; folded his arms loosely across his middle, "Is that a tumor thing or have you just suddenly turned into a bit of a dick now that you don't have all those dreamy curls to shellac to your head?"

"Both," Blaine sighed.

"You should have said it was just the tumor," Trip smiled a little, "I'd of believed you."

Blaine pushed the cards away from himself, "I don't even know anymore… I'm just angry all the time, and I just—I haven't been like this since I was fifteen. Maybe it is just me and not the cancer at all."

Trip regarded Blaine quietly. He shook his head slowly, "It's the cancer. Definitely that thing in your head."

"Whatever you say, Dr. Morgan." Blaine folded his arms on the table and rested his chin on them. He smiled grimly at Trip.

"It's fucking with the chemicals in your head or chewing on whatever messes with your moods," Trip shook his head again, "You're not an angry person, Blaine. Trust me, I'm the king of assholes; I know one when I meet one, and you're definitely not among our ranks. You're actually really fucking obnoxiously happy."

"If it's eating at my head then how do I know it's not me? My head's still me, isn't it? The words still come out of my mouth and they still hurt people." Blaine turned his cheek into his arms; his eyes drifted unseeingly over the smooth wood of the tabletop.

"Christ, Blaine, you've got yourself in one hell of a slump. Stop beating yourself up; you haven't fucked up a word since I got here, right? That's a good thing, that's…" Trip leaned back in his chair to look at the clock on the microwave, "Twelve whole minutes of normal. Well, other than your minor temper tantrum when you threw your pencil, but that's not much compared to when you almost took my face off last week."

"Since when are you optimistic?" Blaine muttered. He glanced at Trip out of the corner of his eye.

Trip shrugged; blushed a little, "New lease on life, bud. Also, your boy toy kinda terrified me a couple weeks ago into being a little less…me."

Blaine turned his chin back onto his hands and smiled a little, "He can be persuasive that way."

Trip snorted, "No kidding. Seriously though, Anderson, lighten up a bit, you're so fucking uptight I feel like  _I'm_  the one who's got the stick up his ass. Do you have any idea how many cigarettes I've been going through since I got to Ohio in an attempt to deal with your secondhand stress?"

"Sorry," Blaine pushed himself back upright in his chair, "Really, Trip, I am. I'm supposed to be acting as a good influence for you and—"

"I'm eighteen, Anderson, not five, and you've been pretty damn good to me in the past," a slow smirk crept over Trip's mouth, "Which is why I've decided to return the favor. I got a present for you."

"Yeah? What's that?" Blaine eyed Trip's smile warily. It was a little too cunning for his liking.

Trip, never one to pass up a chance for shock value, climbed up on the table and crossed his legs. He smiled down at Blaine, "For you, my good sir, I have the solution to all your problems."

Blaine smiled up at him, "A cure for cancer? You really should advertise that to some people over in Sweden; they might have a present for  _you_."

"Not quite what I got, but close enough," Trip reached into his pocket and dropped a plastic bag down in front of Blaine.

Blaine squinted at it for a moment. The smell of it cued recognition in his head before the sight did. He nearly knocked himself and his chair over when he recoiled from the table, "Trip, that's marijuana!"

"Helps with nausea, all your household aches and pains,  _and_  it'll mellow you out a bit," Trip smiled; clearly pleased with himself, "You're welcome."

"Are you crazy?" Blaine hissed, "My mother is right outside!"

Trip hummed a mellow note of acknowledgement, "I don't think she'll mind."

"Trip, we are talking about the same mother who gave me a half of a glass of wine at dinner last Christmas and then lectured me for an hour about being safe when I start drinking once I turn twenty one."

Trip laughed, "Mommy doesn't know about Blaine's romp into the wonderful realm of bi-curiosity after a few sips too many?"

"How do  _you_ know about that?" Blaine flushed red.

"Your boyfriend's a real talker when he gets pissed off," Trip shrugged and motioned toward the plastic bag still sitting between them on the table, "And you're avoiding the topic at hand."

Blaine scrutinized the plastic with a scowl, "Where did you even get that?"

"One of your little birds," Trip grinned, "You were right, the Dalton kids are real nice fellas."

Blaine's expression softened, "You actually went and met some of them? How was it?"

"It was just peachy, Anderson, we painted each other's nails and made promises to be brothers for life." Trip rolled his eyes.

"Did you try to make friends at least?" Blaine pushed.

"Jesus Christ, I'll be fine, Mom, I already told you I don't need a fucking buddy system," Trip scowled, "Stop trying to turn this conversation around on me."

Blaine let out a long sigh, "Trip, I appreciate the sentiment, but you're going to get yourself in trouble buying this stuff and my mom—"

"I'm going to stop you right there, Anderson," Trip held up two fingers and pointed at the first, "A, I didn't get caught; it's fine."

He pointed to the second finger and looked pointedly at Blaine, "B, You really think your mom is going to be pissed if you do something that'll help you eat more than one fucking saltine cracker every couple hours? You and I both know parents can be pretty damn good at looking the other way when they need to."

Blaine ran a tongue over the sore in his mouth—it was a new thing he'd woken up with the previous morning. It stung and left a coppery taste in his mouth every time he worried his tongue over it, but he couldn't stop. He swallowed down the metallic taste in his mouth and sighed, "…Kurt will kill me."

"Kurt doesn't have to know," Trip waved a hand dismissively, "Do it now and we won't say anything about it when we go visit."

"You don't think he'll notice?" Blaine opened the bag and sniffed curiously. He wrinkled his nose.

"Nah, you'll just seem a little more chill than usual. It won't be a problem; trust me."

"…Where would we do it?" Blaine toyed with the bag between both hands nervously.

Trip spread his arms out, "Right here."

"I know you're crazy, but I didn't think you were stupid." Blaine rolled his eyes, "My mom is right…um, she's…"

"Outside," Trip filled, "And yes, I'm aware, we've already been through this, but I'll say it again: I think she's willing to turn a blind eye to her darling baby doing something potentially a tiny bit controversial."

"Illegal." Blaine corrected.

"Whatever," Trip groaned, "We'll drive somewhere then if you're so freaked out about it. We can leave a bit earlier than originally planned and hot box on the way to Lima."

Blaine touched his tongue to the inside of his cheek again and twisted the edge of the bag between his fingers, "…You're sure it won't be horribly obvious?"

Trip crossed a finger over his heart, "Positive."

 

* * *

"Kurt, are you absolutely sure we have to do this?"

 

"He's the one paying rent, and if he finds out I tried to keep this from him—" Kurt shook his head, "This is the only way it might work."

"Might?" David echoed; swallowed. He looked up at the house apprehensively, "And if he says no?"

Kurt drummed his fingers against the wheel, "He…we'll worry about what ifs when we arrive at them. Do you want to do this or not?"

"I—" David flexed his hands in his lap.

Kurt sighed, "I know it's scary, David—coming out isn't easy and—"

"I'm not scared," Karofsky sighed; sat back in his seat. He stared down at his hands.

"David." Kurt sighed, "If—"

David looked back up at him, "I'm ready."

Kurt rolled his eyes, "Are you sure this time?"

"Yeah, lets just—," David's attention was suddenly focused out on the driveway where a car had pulled up beside them.

Kurt looked too and sighed, "I forgot they were coming over… oh well, I guess it'll be good to have witnesses."

Karofsky shot Kurt a look before climbing out of the car.

Trip smiled a little too brightly for Kurt's taste as he climbed out of the driver's seat, his eyes sliding over David's form, "Well, well, well. What do we have here?"

Blaine was still in the car and he'd made no move to get out.

Trip leaned back against his closed door and smiled even wider when David only stared at him with wide eyes, "It's the haircut, isn't it? You don't even remember me."

"No! I mean you look different, but I remember— your eyes are the same, but I—" David cleared his throat roughly, "Yeah, I remember you, Trip."

"A name and everything," Trip raised an eyebrow, "color me impressed, Dave."

Kurt leaned over to try and get a better look at Blaine through the window, "What's he doing? Does he feel alright?"

"He feels great; he's just dawdling," Trip pounded on the top of the car and peered in through the window, "Blaine! Get out here."

"Don't yell at him." Kurt snapped. He hadn't yet fully forgiven Trip that day at Blaine's house.

Trip rolled his eyes and motioned a hand toward the car when Blaine's door opened, "It served its purpose."

"Listen, my dad should be home soon, so here's the deal—" Kurt stopped short when Blaine's arms were suddenly wrapped around him. He smiled despite himself and returned the embrace, "Hello to you, too."

Blaine nuzzled his cheek against Kurt's shirt.

Kurt laughed; hugged Blaine tighter, "What's gotten into you all of the sudden?"

"Mmm," Blaine was still rubbing his cheek against Kurt's shoulder, "So soft."

"What—" Kurt stopped short when the smell off Blaine's hat hit his nose. He knew the scent of Blaine well; a strange combination of hair gel, cologne, and bubble gum that had come to feel like home. But this was not that smell. He sniffed the collar of Blaine's shirt to be sure before pushing him back a few paces. He studied the bleary eyes; the lazy smile, "Oh. My.  _God_."

"Problem?" Trip smiled innocently.

"Problem? You want to know if there's a  _problem_?" Kurt hissed; he looked around the yard quickly to make sure no one was within earshot, "You got my boyfriend  _high_!"

Trip folded his arms loosely across his chest and smiled faintly at Kurt, "No idea what you're talking about."

Kurt opened and closed his mouth before grabbing a hold of Blaine's shoulders and spinning him around to face Trip and David. He waved a frantic hand around his face, "Do  _not_ play stupid with me right now, Morgan. Look at him!"

Blaine tracked Kurt's hand slowly back down to his side. He giggled.

Trip tilted his head to study Blaine's face before looking back at Kurt, "Okay, he might have smoked a little—"

"A  _little?"_ Kurt seethed. Blaine moved in closer to Kurt's side; reached a hand up to touch Kurt's shirt again. He worked the fabric of Kurt's sleeve between his thumb and index finger.

Trip shrugged, "He's not a very big guy."

Kurt waved an arm frantically toward the house, "I'm supposed to be telling my dad that I'm planning on letting David Karofsky move in with me, and now you have my boyfriend over here smelling like Woodstock and acting like he got a lobotomy!"

"You're moving in with him?" Trip looked between Kurt and David with mild interest.

"Yes! You need to get Blaine out of here or—"

"I'm standing right here," Blaine frowned, "And I don't want to go."

Kurt ignored Blaine and let out an exasperated sigh, "Why would you let him smoke?"

Trip's face lit up. He turned his smile toward Blaine, "How you feeling, buddy? Headache? Car sick at all?"

"Mmm, little headache," Blaine shrugged; smiled blithely, "I feel good. Really good."

Trip looked back at Kurt, "See? There ya have it. He's happy as a clam."

"He's  _drugged_ ," Kurt rubbed his temples and sighed, "Okay, here's what we're going to do; listen  _carefully_ —"

"Hey, what're you all doing out here? Don't you like flip out about your hair in this kind of humidity?" Finn appeared in the open garage; a basketball tucked under his arm. His expression turned hard when his eyes lit on Karofsky, "What's he doing here?"

Kurt ignored the question, "Is my dad home?"

"No, but he called to say he's headed this way soon," Finn narrowed his eyes at David, "Did he do something to you?"

"What? No!" Kurt let out another exasperated sigh, "What are you even doing home?"

"I don't work today and my mom took me to get dorm room stuff." Finn shrugged. When Blaine stepped closer to him, he smiled, "Hey, Blaine."

Blaine tipped his head up a bit to meet Finn's eyes; he giggled, "So tall."

Trip and David laughed; Kurt covered his face with a hand in exasperation.

Finn squinted at Blaine's face, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, "Blaine, are you… did you smoke weed?"

Trip and David laughed harder, Kurt groaned, "If it's obvious to  _Finn_  there is no way in hell my dad won't know, Trip you need to take him for a drive or something."

"But I wanted to see the fireworks! After that little display your old man started over changing a tire, I can't even imagine the show he'll put on when he finds out you want to live with this kid." Trip hooked a thumb in David's direction.

" _What?"_ Finn's smile fell immediately, "No way, Kurt."

"Not your decision, Finn." Kurt glowered at his stepbrother. He turned his attention back to Trip, "We'll regale you with the whole epic tale later. Go."

"You're a little late." David nodded toward the street where a car was pulling up at the curb.

Kurt's eyes went wide when he recognized his father getting out of the driver's seat.

"Better be one heck of a party you got going in the driveway if I have to park on the street at my own house." Burt looked between the boys pointedly; his gaze resting on David the longest.

Karofsky squirmed beneath his glare; his eyes finally going down to the asphalt when Burt continued to stare him down.

Kurt straightened himself up; tried to appear as composed as possible, "Dad, there's something I wanted to talk to you about."

"What the hell did you do?" Burt glared even harder at Karofsky and took a threatening step forward.

David looked up at him in alarm, "I didn't—I mean Kurt and I—"

"Dave, shut up," Kurt snapped, "Dad, could we go inside and talk, please?"

"You expect me to let him in my house?"

Kurt closed his eyes; he took momentary comfort in the feeling of Blaine's fingers suddenly tangled loosely in his. He opened his eyes and hoped he looked calmer than he felt, "Please, Dad. For me."

Burt fixed Karofsky with another look, "What's this about?"

"Dad, let's just talk about it in the house," Kurt resisted the urge to groan out loud, "It's about thirty degrees cooler, and Finn, you're right, this humidity is killing me."

Burt looked down at the driveway; pursed his lips in silent deliberation. No one moved for a minute.

Trip watched David.

Finn watched Kurt.

Kurt watched Burt.

Blaine watched Finn's basketball still tucked under his arm.

"Fine."

Kurt didn't realize he was holding his breath until he felt the air suddenly burst from his mouth. He forced a smile, "Great."

They all shuffled in and Kurt wondered absently how many big conversations he was going to have at the damn dining room table as he settled himself into a chair between Blaine and David.

Burt sat down across from them, "Well?"

Kurt folded his hands on the table; sat up as straight as he could, "As you know, I went to visit with a potential roommate for my upcoming move to the big city."

Burt didn't smile at the sarcasm. He narrowed his eyes at Kurt.

Kurt swallowed; he could feel his composure crumbling a little too quickly, "And that potential roommate turned out to be someone looking for trying out something new in his life, too, so we talked about it for awhile and we both decided we could see the arrangement working out well—"

"Are you telling me what I think you're telling me?" Burt's neck was turning red. If Kurt knew anything, it was that it was time to stop talking when he saw that telltale warning sign.

"Dad," Kurt met his father's eyes, "I asked David to be my roommate when I move to Columbus."

"Absolutely not." Burt clenched his hands on the table.

"Dad, please—"

Burt turned to glare at David. His tone low, "Where  _the hell_  do you get off even considering I'd let you anywhere near my boy?"

"Dad, I told him—"

"I'm addressing David, Kurt." Burt snapped, his venomous look never leaving David's face.

Kurt kicked David's foot under the table when he didn't respond right away.

David jumped at the contact, his gaze flitting to Kurt in alarm and then back to Burt, "I… I know I did some really awful things to Kurt—really, really awful—"

"You're damn right you did." Burt snarled.

"Dad, let him finish," Kurt turned—what he hoped to be—a comforting look to David, "Go ahead."

David looked down at the tabletop, "I know you didn't believe me when I said I changed back in high school when the school board let me come back."

Burt snorted.

Kurt shot him a look.

"I—I guess I still had a long way to go then… and I still do, I know that. But, the thing is, Bur—Mr. Hummel, Kurt's been the best influence I've ever had…" David glanced tentatively at Kurt and then looked back down at his hands folded tightly in his lap, "He… he made me think maybe it…maybe it's okay to be myself… maybe instead of being so pissed off all the time, I could… I could be honest about who I am and—"

Burt's glare intensified, "Doesn't seem like you've had much of a problem being honest about your thoughts in the past."

"Dad." Kurt snapped a little more harshly than he'd meant to. He reached out a hand and touched David's arm gently, "Is there anything else you want to say, David?"

"Kurt's always just been himself—he's never been scared to be who he is, but I…I was scared, and the truth is…" David glanced hesitantly around at the faces around him. He closed his eyes; swallowed audibly, "I…I'm like Kurt."

Burt blinked, "Excuse me?"

David opened his eyes to meet Burt's, "… I'm gay."

The sound of an abruptly stifled giggle turned everyone's attention to Blaine.

Blaine sat cross-legged in his chair; a hand clamped over his mouth and his eyes swimming with sudden mirth. His shoulders shook with the effort to hold in his laughter.

Trip glanced at Blaine, "Something you wanna share with the class, Anderson?"

Blaine dropped his hand, but he could barely speak, "M-my shoes—"

Everyone watched him in silence as he burst into another fit of giggles.

"M-my shoes—" Another fit.

Kurt resisted the urge to crawl underneath the table, "Blaine, this is so incredibly not appropriate right now, you—"

"What about your shoes, Blaine?" Burt frowned at Blaine with a mixture of confusion and concern.

Trip looked down at Blaine's feet, a slow smile pulling at his own mouth, "He has two different shoes on."

"Two different shoes!" Blaine half-shouted, half-choked on the words. He folded his arms on the table and dropped his face down on them when he dissolved into another loud burst of laughter.

Kurt resisted the urge to drop his own head to the table for a different reason entirely. He glanced nervously toward his father who was watching Blaine; his expression unreadable.

Trip stood quickly, a casual smile on his face, "Blaine, what do you say we go for a walk or something—I feel like we're intruding on family time."

"Hold on there for a minute, kid." Burt didn't move his gaze from Blaine who was still laughing into his folded arms.

Trip paused, his expression carefully blank.

"You boys can stay, but I'm sure Blaine's hungry," Burt looked pointedly between Kurt and Blaine, "Finn, why don't you order some pizzas?"

Finn wasn't listening. He was still staring at David in wonder, "You're…you're gay?"

To everyone's surprise, it was Trip who spoke up; his voice flat, "Is that a problem?"

Finn looked at him in alarm, "No! God no, but—after all that shit you did to Kurt in high school? Why the hell would you do that to him?"

Kurt rubbed a hand over Blaine's back in hopes of settling any latent giggles, but he watched David quietly.

David's cheeks flushed red; his eyes suddenly looked wet, "I… like I said, Kurt… Kurt's always been exactly who he is no matter who he pissed off, and I guess… it made me so… so  _angry_ that he was so comfortable with being him. I was confused and I hated myself and I was… I was jealous."

The room was silent. Even Blaine was quiet, his head still cradled between his arms on the table.

David looked up at Burt, "I'd like the chance to try again, sir."

Burt was hunched over the table; his hands folded tight, "Finn, go order the pizza. Take Trip and Blaine with you."

The room fell quiet again save for the sound of chairs sliding over the carpet as the boys disappeared to the kitchen.

A minute passed…. and then another…

"You so much as look at him wrong, you're out."

Burt spoke so abruptly, both boys jumped.

David recovered first; nodding quickly, "Yes, sir."

"You pay your half of the rent on time and you keep those thug friends of yours out of that apartment."

"I'm cutting myself off from them, and I'll have a job, Mr. Hummel, the rent won't be a problem."

Burt stared hard at David, "Your old man know about any of this?"

"N-no, sir," David glanced at Kurt, "Not yet."

Burt looked at him for another long minute before turning his gaze to Kurt, "I trust your judgment, kid."

Kurt nodded, "I'm sure about this, Dad."

Burt sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest; he studied them both quietly.

They stared back hopefully.

Burt let out a long breath, "Better get in the kitchen and give your input if you want any say about what goes on that pizza, Kurt, because I'm having a slice no matter how much you nag at me."

Kurt tried to suppress a victorious smile, "…so you're okay with this whole thing?"

Burt looked suddenly weary. He took off his hat and rubbed his head, "God knows I can't stop you once you get an idea in your head."

"Thank you, sir." David's shoulders relaxed visibly.

"I mean it. One toe out of line and I'll make sure something unfortunate happens to the breaks in that shitty pickup of yours, got it?"

David paled; nodded fast, "Yes, sir."

"Good," Burt pushed himself to his feet, "Go ahead and go in the kitchen with the guys then."

David and Kurt exchanged a quick look as they got to their feet and moved toward the kitchen.

Blaine was seated on the edge of the island; a jar of Nutella in one hand and a spoon in the other. He held his spoon toward Kurt, "It's like an orgasm for your mouth. Try."

Kurt wrinkled his nose, "There's still Nutella on there that has clearly seen the inside of your mouth already."

"I'm sure you've had Blaine's spit and plenty of his other bodily fluids in your mouth before, Hummel, a little secondhand Nutella won't kill you." Trip smirked.

"Ew, man, that's my brother," Finn cringed. He had a spoon, too, but he abandoned it in the sink.

Trip's smile softened when he turned to look at David who was standing quietly beside Kurt, "Big day for you today."

David glanced at him; studied his face suspiciously, and when Trip didn't add anymore, David looked disgruntled, "what, no punch line?"

"I wasn't trying to be funny," Trip's smile faded, "I wouldn't make fun of someone coming out."

David studied Trip; opened his mouth to respond.

"Pizza's here, fellas," Burt came into the kitchen and dropped three boxes down on the counter, "Dig in."

Kurt pried the jar of Nutella from Blaine's hand, "You don't need that for your pizza."

Blaine relinquished the jar in exchange for a paper plate from Finn and went with the other boys to hover over the boxes.

Burt turned his attention to Kurt, "Come on back out to the dining room for a minute, bud, we have something else we need to talk about."

David glanced nervously at Kurt.

"Sure." Kurt smiled reassuringly at David as he followed his father out of the kitchen.

Once they'd made it back to the dining room, and Burt turned around to face Kurt, Kurt started talking, "I know you think Dave and I living together is an awful idea and I understand your reservations, but—"

Burt sighed, "Kurt, I'm not going to try and stop you. You're moving into your own place; you get to make your own decisions… I'm glad you had the courtesy to tell me, though."

Kurt nodded; tried to smile, "You're my half of the rent; I got a little nervous about being disowned if I didn't mention something."

Burt snorted, "Listen, though, that's not what I wanted to talk to you about."

Kurt felt his cheeks flush. He knew exactly what this was about, "Oh…what'd you want to talk about?"

"Blaine."

"What about Blaine?" Kurt tried to work his face into something resembling befuddled innocence.

"Don't give me that, Kurt, I was a kid once."

"Dad, I don't know—"

"Kurt, I don't know what he did to get it to stick to his clothes like that, but I could smell him the second I came up the driveway."

"New cologne?" Kurt offered lamely, but it was no use, he knew when he'd lost a battle.

Burt sighed, "Just… make sure he's careful, all right?"

Kurt looked up at his father in alarm, "Excuse me?"

"Listen, when your mom was sick we looked into a lot of alternative medicine… stuff, so I know it can be pretty helpful," Burt looked as uncomfortable as Kurt, "But listen, if you ever decide to try it with him, make sure you're somewhere safe and make sure what you're buying is safe, all right?"

Kurt stared at his father in muted horror, "Dad, I didn't even know he—I wouldn't—I just…I—"

"Kurt," Burt smiled a little, "Relax."

Kurt closed his eyes; opened them again. He could feel the blush hot in his cheeks, "Yeah…okay."

Burt jerked his chin down once in acknowledgement, "…go ahead and get back in the kitchen."

Kurt nodded and walked away quickly; all too happy to be free from the conversation.

Trip grinned at him when he made it back to the kitchen, "Nice talk?"

"That was worse than a sex talk." Kurt muttered; shaking his head.

"Well then we have the perfect distraction for you, your brother and boyfriend were just discussing the exact flavor of pepperoni," Trip motioned a hand toward Blaine and Finn, "Real deep stuff."

Kurt smiled at Blaine, "Better than Nutella?"

"Kurt, you  _have_  to try—it's—it's—" Blaine shook his head and shoved his slice of pizza in Kurt's face, "Try."

Kurt wrinkled his nose, but Blaine was still looking at him with a mixture of desperation and rapture. He sighed and leaned in to take a bite. He chewed slowly; tried to ignore the oily feeling of grease on his tongue.

He rolled his eyes when he realized everyone was watching him, but he smiled for Blaine, "Very good."

"It's the best pizza I've ever had," Blaine sighed blissfully and took another bite. He shoved an open box toward Kurt and talked around a mouthful of food, "You need to have your own. And try the cheese too, it's—"

"The best pizza you've ever had." Trip and Kurt chorused; exchanging a smile.

"Exactly," Blaine grinned.

"Told you this was a good idea," Trip smirked at Kurt; clearly pleased with himself.

"Fine, you're right, it was a good idea." Kurt sighed.

"Let the record show that today, August thirteenth, Kurt Hummel said Trip Morgan was right," Trip looked at Finn, "Go mark the calendar."

Kurt rolled his eyes and grabbed the liter of Diet Coke sitting on the counter to pour himself a cup, "Forgive me for attempting to be a little open minded."

Trip glanced at David before raising his own cup toward Kurt.

Kurt eyed Trip's cup for a moment in confusion before smiling; he lifted his cup too, and Finn and David followed suit—Blaine was still fawning over his pizza.

Kurt tapped his cup against theirs; smiled at David, "To trying new things."


	23. Chapter 21

Kurt lay in his bed and stared at the dark silhouettes of his suitcases lined up in front of his nearly empty closet. He was grateful, for once, for the racing thoughts keeping him up until all hours of the night. He had to stay awake tonight.

He strained his ears for any sounds from the hallway, but the strain only made his ears ring. He rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling.

It was strange how right the moment was. Lying awake in bed with his nerves humming and a thrill of anxiety or excitement—maybe both—tingling in his toes and fingers. Packed bags by the door; boxes labeled with black permanent marker sealed shut with clear plastic tape; the fussing over what could come and what would have to stay to save space. Tomorrow Kurt would pack his car—boxes straining at the seams and bags shoved in at every angle imaginable to make them all fit. He'd kiss Carol and hug his father goodbye; promise to call the second he was settled in. He'd pull out of the driveway; excited and scared and sure of nothing but the fact that he was starting a new chapter in his life.

If he and Blaine had spent the summer plotting adventures in the city, making lists of coffee shops so they could start testing them out immediately to find  _their_ coffee shop, and devising ways to get Rachel out of the apartment so they could have some time alone—if things had remained as they should have, if Blaine had never gotten sick—this part would be the same. An empty closet; a sleepless night; waiting for Rachel to finish saying goodbye to Finn so she could climb into bed with Kurt and cry on his shoulder.

Kurt contemplated getting up and reorganizing his box of scarves, but then there was a sliver of light from the hallway cutting its way across his floor. Kurt didn't wait for his eyes to adjust to get a good look at the silhouette just outside the door. He lifted his blankets wordlessly until Rachel was curled in beside him.

He rolled onto his side to face her but said nothing for the first few minutes. She cried quietly save for the occasional sniffle and the trembling of her shoulders. When she had stilled, Kurt leaned over her and pulled the box of Kleenex from the nightstand and offered one to her wordlessly.

She took it and dabbed at her face—the white silhouette of the tissue looked dim blue in the darkness of Kurt's bedroom, "I knew it was g-going to b-be hard, b-b-but—"

Kurt shushed her quietly. He wrapped a hand around one of her wrists and brushed a thumb over the soft skin.

"Th-this is for the best. I know it is—f-for now—" she sniffled again, "b-but I didn't know it was—Kurt? Tell me it's going t-t-to be okay."

"It's going to be better than okay." Kurt smiled at her even if she couldn't see it in the dark.

"What if h-he m-m-meets a pr-pr-pretty girl at Ohio State. W-we'll never stand a chance of g-g-getting back together." She cried in earnest again.

"He won't. This is just temporary, remember? Focus on yourselves the first month and then talk about it—it's not a break up, it's just a break," Kurt smiled at her again, slid in a little closer, "Besides, I'll be there to keep an eye on him and any sluts that try to climb their way up to his mouth."

Rachel let out a quiet, tear-soaked giggle, but then she sighed, her voice even softer, "I wish you were coming with me."

Kurt closed his eyes, "You won't be alone. You'll have Quinn."

"Quinn isn't you and Blaine," Rachel sniffled again.

"I know," Kurt closed his eyes, "But this is for the best, too."

Rachel quieted; mulling over his words. After a minute she closed even more space between them, her legs tangling between his, "This time next year, do you know what we're going to be doing?"

"Hmm?" Kurt could see her eyes shining in the dark.

"We'll be drinking wine in our apartment," She slid her fingernails lightly over the exposed skin of Kurt's arm, "And Blaine will be over complaining about how boring orientation week is—and he'll have made a thousand friends already, of course, so he'll be telling us all about them, too. And once he goes back to his dorm, we'll plan ways to spy on all the boys he mentions to make sure they aren't gay and going after Blaine."

"You're pre-plotting our meddling?" Kurt smiled weakly.

"You of all people should know meddling requires planning," Rachel nudged Kurt's foot with hers, "our plans will be seamless by next September."

Kurt laughed quietly. He traced his fingers over the edge of his pillowcase, "Isn't it insane how much time can change things?"

Rachel was quiet.

"We break up, we get back together, we fight, we make friends—best friends," Kurt squeezed Rachel's wrist again, "If you could go back and tell us at sixteen that this is where we'd be tonight, would you believe it for a second?"

Rachel giggled, "We were still fighting over Finn then."

"Shh, we don't talk about that." Kurt prodded Rachel in the ribs.

Rachel laughed again, but then quieted, "When we were sixteen, Quinn was still trying to ruin my life, and you were still trying to convince people you were straight."

"And you didn't know how to dress yourself. Oh, wait, that hasn't changed a bit."

Rachel gasped indignantly and kicked Kurt beneath the covers, "And you've still got a sense of humor harsh enough to reduce even the most confident person to tears."

"Maybe we're not so different after all." Kurt smiled grimly.

Rachel pulled her wrist out of Kurt's hold and wrapped his hand in hers, "You're still the bravest person I know."

"And you're still the most blindly ambitious person I know," Kurt tipped his forehead in closer to hers, "I can't even begin to imagine the things you'll have done by this time next year."

"If I win a Tony, you'll be the first person I thank in my acceptance speech."

"I'd expect nothing less."

Rachel giggled, but when she spoke, her tone was somber, "I should get going. Early morning tomorrow and I'm taking the first driving shift."

Kurt nodded, "Try not to piss off Quinn before you make it to the border, okay?"

"And you try not to let David Karofsky get away with any funny business. Remember, if he makes so much as one snide remark, Finn and Puck can—"

"I know. We'll be fine," Kurt rolled his eyes, "Let's both just agree to do the best we can with our respective roommates."

Rachel sighed, "It's not our fault if we have a certain way we like things to be."

"We all make allowances," Kurt sighed, too, "You accept the fact that I have high standards to match my sense of high fashion, and, in exchange, I accept the fact that you will never be able to go out in public without consulting me about an outfit first."

"I can't be a cat lady recluse in the city, Kurt."

Kurt tapped her lightly on the nose, "They invented Skype for a reason, darling. I expect all audition outfits cleared with me at least twenty four hours in advance."

Rachel sniffled again unexpectedly, "I think leaving you is even harder than leaving Finn."

"You're going to do great. You  _are_  great," Kurt blinked back his own tears, "One year, remember? Twelve months. Think how fast these past three years have gone and we're in  _Lima, Ohio_. You'll blink and a year in the city will have passed."

Rachel nodded and made a sort of sniffling-laugh sound, "I'm going to hug you now, okay?"

Kurt snorted out a short laugh, "Yeah, okay."

Rachel wrapped her arms around him; her hair tickling beneath Kurt's chin.

"You know you don't have to warn me every time you go in for a hug." Kurt hugged her back.

"Should I warn you that I'm not ready to let go of you yet?" Rachel sniffled.

"No," Kurt hugged her even closer, "I'm not ready either."

 

* * *

The next morning, despite his brave words the previous night, Kurt cried when he hugged Rachel one more time before passing her off to Blaine.

 

Blaine and Rachel were even worse than Kurt and Rachel. They cried and whimpered sentiments at one another Kurt was fairly sure neither one could actually understand.

"Ridiculous, aren't they?" Kurt met Quinn's eyes with a sad smile. He sniffled and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to dry his eyes. He'd known including that particular accessory to his outfit was a good choice.

"They're just scared," Quinn's voice wavered, "Thinking about this stuff never actually prepares you for the real moment."

Kurt tucked his handkerchief away, "Don't be scared."

"I didn't choose to feel this way," Quinn's face looked pale beneath red lipstick, "I know I want to go—I really do, but—"

"Lie to yourself," Kurt smiled, "Tell yourself the blood pounding in your ears and that sick feeling in your stomach are because you're so excited you can barely stand it."

"Have you ever felt like puking out of sheer joy?" Quinn asked pointedly.

"Maybe you're pregnant again." Kurt shrugged.

"Shut up." Quinn's eyes went wide in alarm.

"See? There are things a lot more nerve wracking than moving to New York," Kurt laughed and pulled Quinn into a hug, "You're going to be fabulous, Quinn. New York loves two kinds of females: pretty girls and driven women, and you just happen to be both. You'll knock them all off their feet."

Quinn hugged him tightly, "Thank you, Kurt. For everything."

Trip was leaned against the hood of his car, watching the goodbyes in silence. He offered no complaints or biting remarks as his gaze moved from Kurt and Quinn to Rachel and Blaine to Finn and his mother.

They'd planned the day carefully: Finn and Puck were leaving two days later than their assigned move in date, Rachel and Quinn were leaving a day earlier than originally planned, and Kurt was moving in the day his lease started. One quick, grand goodbye for all of them would be better than three individual situations, they'd thought.  _Like pulling off a Band Aid_ , Rachel had insisted,  _…but worse_.

So much worse. Kurt hugged Quinn even tighter before passing her off to talk a little more calmly with Blaine. Puck approached him and offered a hand, "If Karofsky so much as looks at you funny, you know where we live."

"Thank you, Noah, but I think we'll be alright." Kurt accepted the offered hand and managed to maintain his footing when Puck pulled him in for a hug. He patted him awkwardly on the back.

They stood back and everyone looked around at one other, the realization that all the goodbyes were finished settled slowly over them.

Burt broke the silence, "Well, Kurt, we'll be over just as soon as we get Puck and Finn settled into their dorm room, alright?"

Kurt nodded and swallowed down a second round of tears, "Yeah, sounds great."

Another silence blanketed them.

"We should probably get going," Trip's voice was quiet, "You told your landlord you'd get your key by noon, right?"

Kurt nodded heavily, "Yes, we probably should… well…"

Rachel threw her arms around Kurt's neck again, "I'm starting a countdown calendar today, okay?"

"Look at you not even asking permission to give a hug; you're already growing up and you haven't even left Lima yet," Kurt laughed and hugged her tight before pushing her back gently by the shoulders, "I told Quinn she has my permission to burn your grey kitten heels and that pink and orange poncho, so you can't get upset with her when it happens, alright?"

"I already donated them to Goodwill." Rachel laughed through her tears.

Kurt laughed too, and pressed a kiss to her forehead, "There's hope for you yet, Miss Berry."

Rachel turned to kiss Blaine on the cheek and then wrap herself in Finn's arms again.

Kurt moved reluctantly toward his car. He glanced toward Trip who was still sitting patiently on the hood of his car, "Meet you there?"

Trip waved a hand flippantly, "I'm just driving around Miss Daisy and playing pack mule to your stuff today; I'll go wherever you tell me to."

"Thanks, Trip." Kurt glanced toward Blaine, "Who are you riding with?"

"You take him; I'd rather be spared the secondary tears." Trip slid off his car and pulled open the door.

With a third round of goodbye hugs from everyone, Kurt and Blaine climbed into the Navigator and stared out the windshield at the others for a moment before Kurt started the car and pulled out of the driveway.

Blaine's hand closed around Kurt's knee, "You could still change your mind, ya know."

Kurt laughed, "Blaine, don't even start with me. I made my choice."

Blaine fell quiet. He leaned back into his seat and stared out the window.

Kurt glanced at him out of the corner of his eye and let go of the wheel with one hand to slip his fingers between Blaine's, "We're going to be okay, Blaine."

Blaine nodded slowly. He lifted Kurt's hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss to it, "We'll be more than okay."

They exchanged a smile and Kurt turned on the radio, the moment passed.

Getting the key from the landlord was the easy part. The difficult part of the trip proved to be getting Kurt's mattress to the third floor.

"It's not going to fit." Trip sat down on top of one of Kurt's boxes and watched Kurt and Blaine trying to maneuver the mattress into the elevator.

"It's going to fit." Kurt spoke through gritted teeth as he threw his weight into the side of the mattress. He glared at Trip, "Don't sit on that box. My clothes are in there."

"Blaine's going to die," Trip didn't move off the box. He nodded toward the elevator, "If the cancer doesn't get him, then your mattress will do the trick. He's either going to suffocate or be crushed."

"Not funny!" Blaine shouted; his voice muffled inside the elevator.

"Are you okay in there?" Kurt peered into the elevator where Blaine was currently smashed between the mattress and the far wall.

"I'm fine, just get the fucking thing far enough in for the doors to close so we can be done with this." Blaine snapped.

"Someone's in a foul mood today." Kurt muttered. He stood back to inspect the angle of the mattress again.

Trip pushed himself up off the box to study the mattress, too, "I told you I could have—"

"We are not putting him in a perpetual state of drugged bliss." Kurt glared at Trip.

"Would you fucking relax? I was going to say I told you I could show you how to get it in there so it fits." Trip moved in closer to the elevator and kicked at the bottom corner of the mattress and pushed at the top until the entire thing slid in neatly.

A piercing note filled the air as the doors slid shut slowly.

Trip flinched, "Stand clear of the closing doors, boys and girls."

"We'll meet you upstairs!" Kurt called into the elevator quickly as the doors finally slid all the way shut.

Trip chuckled, "Blaine's gonna be all kinds of pissed about that warning alarm."

"He's also going to be stuck in the elevator when it hits the third floor unless we get up there to help him get my mattress out." Kurt sighed and looked toward the stairs.

"Why did we bring Blaine to help today?" Trip lifted the box off the floor and followed Kurt toward the steps, "Most of your boxes of shit weigh more than he does and he gets tired after a walk around the block most days."

"Is there a reason you're being particularly cruel today, or are you just being hormonal?" Kurt snapped. The stairwell was loud— the metal stairs resounded under their feet and their voices bounced off of the cement walls in muted echoes.

"I'm here dragging your shit around, aren't I?" Trip grumbled, "I think I'm entitled to some snide remarks."

Kurt sighed, "I appreciate the help—snide remarks aside. As for Blaine, he's perfectly useful. He's going to help me unpack."

"Does he know that?"

"Of course he does." Kurt snapped. He pushed open the door leading out to the third floor and held it open for Trip.

"You two are ridiculous; like a fucking married couple." Trip muttered. His face twisted into a smile though when he looked down the hall, "It looks like we've underestimated Mr. Anderson."

The mattress was taking up the entire width of the hall just outside the elevator. Blaine sat on top of it, still panting from the effort of working the mattress out onto the floor, but he grinned triumphantly at Trip and Kurt, "What took you so long?"

"We lack your ambition." Kurt leaned over and pressed a kiss to Blaine's forehead.

"Or maybe your particular brand of crazy," Trip dropped the box down beside Blaine's feet, "We were coming up here to help you, ya know."

"If I had to risk hearing that warning alarm again, I'd kill myself," Blaine flinched, "That sound was made to create migraines."

"You can lie down for a bit as soon as we get inside," Kurt waved the key in front of Blaine's face, "Ready to see?"

"Can't wait." Blaine took Kurt's hand when he offered it and together they tipped the mattress on its side and shoved it down the hall a few doors.

"Here we are, 3E." Kurt shouldered the mattress until it leaned against the wall and turned the key in the lock.

"Do you want to look around or get this thing in your room first?" Blaine peered over Kurt's shoulder into the main room of the apartment.

"Lets get my mattress in," Kurt sighed, "I'd rather not start off the year by pissing off 3D because they want out of their apartment and my bed is blocking their exit."

They bullied the mattress across the floor and into the bedroom door Kurt pointed out before letting it fall to the floor with a thump.

Blaine was panting again, his cheeks pink, but he grinned at Kurt when their eyes met, "Show me your place."

Trip was still in the main room, flipping on light switches and inspecting the space.

The main room was decently sized, the floors cherry colored wood and the space already equipped with two full sized couches and a television stand. Kurt waved a hand around the room and put on a fake accent, "The salon."

"Lovely." Blaine folded his hands behind his back as he followed behind Kurt to the kitchen. The space was small, but open, complete with a breakfast bar that looked out over a little table and the main room.

Kurt traced a hand along the cabinets in display before opening and closing the dishwasher, "The kitchen."

"Very nice." Blaine nodded his approval. He pulled open the empty refrigerator and peered in, "Cold fridge and everything."

"Top of the line." Kurt agreed. He paraded around the rest of the apartment and pointed out the other spaces with equal showiness. The small porch behind a sliding door between the table and sitting room where Trip had already slipped away to so he could smoke, the bathroom between the bedrooms, and finally the second bedroom.

Blaine's smile only fell when they stepped into the other empty bedroom, "Where's Karofsky?"

"He's coming over this afternoon sometime," Kurt shrugged, "Soon, probably."

"Hm." Blaine looked around the room, unimpressed.

"Blaine—"

"Lets go grab some of your stuff. It's not going to unpack itself." Blaine stepped out of the bedroom and moved toward the door.

"Are you sure you don't want to sit down for a bit, Blaine?" Kurt eyed Blaine warily. He hadn't missed the slightly stuffy quality to Blaine's voice and the occasional sniffle he'd been trying to cover up for the past few days. As if on cue, Blaine let out a wet sounding cough, "You haven't been feeling the best lately."

"It's a little bit of a cold. It's fine," Blaine sniffled and waved Kurt off as he moved toward the elevator.

"Promise you'll rest if you need to?" Kurt frowned at Blaine as he hit the button for the first floor.

"I'm not an invalid, Kurt, I can carry a fucking box!" Blaine's voice echoed off the walls of the elevator.

Kurt jumped, but he recovered quickly. He forced a smile and nodded, "Okay."

They were silent the rest of the ride down, but as soon as they were out at the car, Blaine was smiling at him again, "Clothes first or do we want to tackle putting together your bed?"

"Clothes," Kurt made a face, "I'm not on speaking terms with my mattress after all of that. I'm being passive aggressive with it."

They moved back and forth between the car, the elevator, and Kurt's room over and over again—Trip finally joining them around the fourth trip out. When all of the boxes had finally found their way inside, all three boys collapsed on the couch; exhausted.

Trip groaned, "That was like unloading Mary Poppin's fucking carpet bag. I would have never agreed to help with this if I'd known what I was signing myself up for."

There was a knock on the door, but none of the boys could be bothered to stand up.

"Door's open!" Kurt called. He petted a hand affectionately over Blaine's shoulder when he collapsed down into his lap and coughed loudly.

"Hey, we're here." David waved awkwardly at them from the doorway. His father stood behind him, a box in his arms and a smile on his face.

Kurt pushed Blaine off his lap gently and stood to greet them, "Nice to see both of you—I already dropped my things in the room on the left—it's the same as the empty room so I figured you wouldn't mind if I made camp."

"No, that's fine," David glanced at Trip apprehensively before looking back at his father, "You can put that down in the empty room, then."

David's father did as he was told before coming back out to offer a hand to Kurt, "Nice to see you again, Kurt, and under such better circumstances."

"Nice to see you, too," Kurt smiled. He glanced toward the door, "Will Mrs. Karofsky be joining us?"

"Oh, no, no," David's father waved a hand, "Diane and I are divorced."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Kurt cleared his throat awkwardly.

"Don't be; it's been a long time," David's father smiled, "And before it becomes an issue, call me Paul, Kurt… and who are your friends? I don't believe we've met."

"This is my boyfriend Blaine and that's Trip over there." Kurt nodded his head toward Trip on one of the couches and rested a hand on Blaine's shoulder with a smile.

Paul Karofsky nodded a polite hello to Trip, but looked over Blaine a little longer, "David mentioned you, I think, Blaine. How have you been doing?"

Kurt could feel the tension in Blaine's shoulder beneath his hand, but he spoke politely, "I've been doing well, sir, thank you for asking."

Paul nodded, his smile widening, "Medicine's miraculous nowadays, isn't it?"

"Quite." Blaine forced a tight smile.

When the room fell quiet for a moment too long, Kurt glanced reluctantly toward the door, "Do you need any help with the boxes?"

"No, it looks like you boys have already done your fair share of lifting," David's father glanced around at the boxes littering the floor, "Though we might need some advice on how to get the mattress up here."

"Talk to Trip, that's his area of expertise." Kurt motioned toward where Trip was still sitting.

"I'll go down with you and we can get it in right now." Trip pushed himself up off the couch. He brushed past David as if he didn't even see him and disappeared out the door.

David blinked in confusion, "…We'd better go help him."

"I'll leave the door open," Kurt waved as David and his father disappeared out the door.

Kurt stood for a moment in the new silence; he could feel the tension rolling off of Blaine, but he opted to ignore it, "Come help me unpack my closet. God knows it's going to take forever to figure out how to make this all fit."

Blaine remained silent for a few minutes, but Kurt had barely started unloading the first box before Blaine decided to voice his feelings.

"I don't like this." Blaine sat cross-legged on the floor; a stack of folded pants already on his lap.

Kurt looked up from the box he was unpacking to roll his eyes, "You didn't seem to have a problem with it last time we discussed this."

"I wasn't mentally present the last time we discussed this." Blaine looked out of Kurt's room with narrowed eyes toward the front door.

"Well then you missed out on the chance to cast a vote. Tough luck." Kurt pulled another stack of shirts from a box and pushed them onto the shelf beside the first stack. He rested a hand on his hip and let out a resigned sigh. There was no way all of his things were going to fit.

When Kurt turned back to pull another pile of clothes out, Blaine was watching him; waiting for their eyes to meet, "Kurt, it's David Karofsky."

"What's your point?" Kurt snapped. He pulled the stack of jeans from Blaine's lap with a little more force than was actually necessary and placed them neatly in a dresser drawer. He'd known Blaine would have something to say when he was able to fully process Kurt's new living arrangements, but this was the first direct conversation they'd had about it.

"My point is that this is the kid who made your life so bad you transferred to Dalton. This is the kid who threatened to  _kill_ you," Blaine waved a frantic hand out toward the main room, "And you're moving in with him!"

"Yes, Blaine, I'm moving in with him.  _Me_. My choice." Kurt plucked another pile of shirts from beside Blaine and stood on tiptoe to push them onto the top shelf of the closet.

"Kurt, I—" Blaine closed his eyes; tapped his foot on the floor, "I…"

Kurt shoved a sweater a little too roughly onto a hanger. He was exhausted, his heart still hurt from knowing his friends were leaving, and Blaine's moodiness was putting him in an even gloomier mood. He glared hard at Blaine , "Unless it's an apology you're trying to form, I don't even care if you remember right now."

Blaine opened his eyes, his expression stricken.

Kurt regretted the words the moment they were out of his mouth, but the look on Blaine's face made his remorse even heavier. He sighed and put the hanger down, "I didn't mean that."

"Yes, you did." Blaine sighed and leaned his weight back against the wall.

Kurt felt a secondary wave of guilt twist at his stomach. He sat down in front of Blaine and pulled his hands into his lap, "I shouldn't have said it, but you need to learn to trust me, Blaine. I'm not stupid."

"I don't think you are," Blaine stared down at his lap, "…but that doesn't change the fact that he did what he did, Kurt. He didn't just push you around a bit. He did a lot of things.  _Awful_  things."

Kurt bent his head; squeezed his hands around Blaine's tighter, "I know."

"So why are you doing this, huh? What are trying to prove?" Blaine tilted his head to try and meet Kurt's eyes.

Unexpectedly, Kurt sniffled—loud in the quiet of the room, "Nothing."

Blaine unfolded his legs and pulled at Kurt to move closer, "Hey, talk to me."

"None of this was what we planned for, Blaine. None of this is fair," Kurt inhaled deep and tried to let the familiar smell of Blaine calm him down, "I'm tired of wondering why everything's going the way it is, I'm just trying to roll with it."

"By moving in with David Karofsky?" Blaine asked quietly; he wrapped an arm around Kurt's shoulders.

"He's trying to stay afloat, Blaine, and I'm—" Kurt swallowed down his tears, "I'm not going to deny him the chance. Not if he's willing to try."

Blaine sighed deeply; rubbed a hand up and down Kurt's back, "You're amazing, you know that?"

"Yes." Kurt tipped his head up to smile at Blaine a little.

Blaine laughed quietly, "Whenever I think I can finally read you, you throw me a curve ball."

"Sorry," Kurt mumbled.

"Don't be; I love that about you," Blaine pressed a kiss to the top of his head, "Just… be careful with this one, okay? You're as stubborn as you are wonderful, so don't ignore Karofsky being awful just so you can prove a point."

"Watch it, you're stepping dangerously close to irritating me again." Kurt frowned, but he brushed his fingers over Blaine's arm lightly.

"Kurt, I mean it. I just…" Blaine paused, "…worry."

Kurt sat up, took Blaine's face between both his hands, and pressed a kiss to his mouth, "Don't. Everything's going to be fine; trust me."

Blaine smiled. He wrapped a hand around Kurt's wrist and squeezed lightly, "I do."

Kurt nodded; satisfied. He looked over Blaine's face; a smile pulling at his mouth, "Your hair is getting a little bit of a wave to it again."

Blaine smiled too, but then grimaced, "That spot by my ear isn't growing back and I'm getting dangerously close to another bald spot on the back of my head. Look."

Kurt studied Blaine's head as instructed when he tipped it down. He rubbed his fingers gingerly over the spot where the hair was a little thinner than the rest, "If it falls out the way it's thinning, it'll look like a heart."

"Who needs to wear their heart on their sleeve, when you can wear it on the back of your head?" Blaine tipped his head back up to grin at Kurt.

Kurt snorted; pressed another kiss to Blaine's mouth, "That's a horrible joke."

"It was kind of funny." Blaine insisted, pulling Kurt back in for a third kiss when he tried to stand.

"Not even a little," Kurt giggled and allowed Blaine to wrap his arms more fully around him.

"Maybe I should get back in to the doctor for an MRI," Blaine slid a hand under the hem of Kurt's shirt, "see if that tumor's messing with my sense of humor."

"This is most definitely not a cancer thing," Kurt smiled against Blaine's mouth, "You've always told horrible jokes."

"Oh, is that so?" Blaine laughed, "I can think of other ways to make you laugh, then."

"What do you—Oh my God, DON'T!" Kurt shrieked when Blaine suddenly pinned him to the floor; tickling him mercilessly. He tried to talk between fits of laughter, "I swear—to—God—Blaine—I'll catapult you—off of me and—and—not—care—a bit—if you get—hurt. STOP!"

"Sorry, what was that?" Blaine grinned, "You sound like you're having so much fun, I can only assume you don't want me to stop."

"Blaine—I—" Kurt kicked out his legs and shoved at Blaine until Blaine landed beside him on the floor with a dull thump. Kurt scrambled up and across the room, struggling to catch his breath and fix his hair at the same time.

"Ow," Blaine whined as he rubbed his shoulder, "That was unnecessarily violent."

"Your actions were unnecessary  _period_ ," Kurt huffed, still struggling to fix his hair without the aid of his mirror, "And to think you're fussing over David Karofsky. What you just did was spousal abuse."

"We're not married." Blaine crawled closer to the mattress still flush with the floor and lay down, smiling up at Kurt, "…yet."

"Are you making plans you're not letting me in on?" Kurt stretched out beside him; rested his chin on his arms.

"Do you have plans to get rid of me?" Blaine coughed into his arm for a moment, but then let out a long sigh, "I knew it. You only ever loved me for my hair."

"It'll grow back; I can be patient." Kurt grinned.

"You're getting dangerously close to having me tickle you again." Blaine stretched out an arm, but only brushed his fingers through the hair beside Kurt's ear.

Kurt laughed quietly, "No, I don't have any plans to get rid of you."

Blaine smiled; tilted his head, "Good."

"We have a slight problem though, Mr. Anderson," Kurt rolled onto his back and stretched his left hand out above his head, "I see no ring."

Blaine rolled onto his side and reached up to pull Kurt's hand back down, "I can fix that."

"If you're planning on proposing, you'd better get down on one knee." Kurt smirked.

Blaine ignored him. He slid Kurt's finger into his mouth and bit down lightly.

Kurt remained still; watching curiously.

Blaine slid Kurt's finger back out of his mouth; a little row of pink teeth marks were printed in a neat circle around the base of his finger. When Kurt met his eyes; Blaine pressed a kiss to the spot, "All mine."

Kurt smiled, "Is that how we're doing things now?"

Blaine smiled; nodded; his face hovering closer above Kurt's.

"Well in that case," Kurt lifted his head until he found Blaine's mouth; he bit down lightly on Blaine's lower lip, "I'm fairly certain this is mine."

Blaine let out a fluttery breath; warm against Kurt's mouth. Kurt wrapped his free hand around the back of Blaine's head and pulled him down closer.

Blaine kicked his leg over Kurt; the hard points of his hips digging between Kurt's. It wasn't the feel Kurt was used to, but the fingers frantically working at his belt were familiar and already flushing his cheeks red.

He hooked a leg around Blaine's ass and pulled him in even closer.

"Told you we could get it in here! David, I don't know what's gotten into you, but you could have helped out a little more."

At the sudden sound of Paul Karofsky's voice, Blaine rolled off of Kurt so fast, he ended up on the floor.

Kurt sat up quickly, working frantically to fix his belt and shirt.

Trip waved at them through the open door, "Mission accomplished."

"Speak for yourself." Kurt muttered.

"Problem, gentlemen?" Trip moved in closer and leaned against the doorframe. He glanced at Blaine on the floor and Kurt sitting on the mattress. He broke into a grin, his voice quiet, "Are we interrupting something?"

"As a matter of fact, yes." Kurt sighed and moved to get up.

"Good things come to those who wait," Trip waggled a finger and smirked, "Patience, friend, you'll get yours."

Trip turned back out to the main room, pulling the door shut as he went.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Kurt muttered.

"Dunno," Blaine smiled and crawled back onto the bed beside Kurt, "But I have a proposition."

"Do tell." Kurt smiled wanly at Blaine; still irritated over the sudden interruption.

"Karofsky has to make a schedule of his work hours for you," Blaine touched a kiss to Kurt's neck, "So we can make a schedule of our own."

"Mm, I like that idea," Kurt smiled, tilted his head so Blaine had more access to his neck, "I talked your mom into signing up for a yoga class or something on Saturday afternoons, and, since I'm such a giving person, I agreed to come hang out with you while she's away if you're not working."

"My very own babysitter," Blaine bit down lightly on the muscled skin between Kurt's neck and shoulder, "That means you have to do whatever I say."

"On the contrary, sir," Kurt pulled Blaine's face back up to his mouth, "I do believe that means you have to do anything  _I_ say."

"I'm sure we can come to some sort of compromise." Blaine murmured, his fingers working their way up Kurt's shirt.

Kurt leaned into the contact, but then just as quickly pulled away, "Blaine, we can't do this with David's dad in the apartment."

"Mmm, I guess you're right," Blaine pulled away slowly; his fingers still absently tracing over Kurt's stomach, "You're way too loud."

Kurt smacked Blaine across the arm, "I am not!"

"You are, too," Blaine smirked, "Remember senior prom?"

"Excuse me, but need I remind  _you_  of our camping trip with the Warblers last March?" Kurt gave Blaine a pointed look, "I don't think it was me that made everyone think that there was a bear outside the tents."

"Hush," Blaine waved a hand dismissively, "How about last April after that party at Puck's?"

Kurt flushed red, but rested a hand on his hip and smirked, "The Dalton graduation party at Nick's. They could hear you from outside."

Blaine blinked, "When?"

"Somewhere between pool time and the bonfire." Kurt sat down beside Blaine on the bed to start pulling shirts onto hangers.

"Bonfire?" Blaine echoed.

"Mhm." Kurt inspected a striped cardigan almost affectionately before sliding it onto the last hanger on his lap.

"We were in the spare bedroom…the one in the basement?"

"The very same." Kurt pushed himself to his feet; the freshly hung shirts slung neatly over one arm.

Blaine shook his head slowly, "I don't remember that."

Kurt smiled as he adjusted a row of hangers in the closet, "Can't say I blame you. You were too busy melting into putty in my hands, darling."

"No, I mean I don't remember any of it."

Kurt turned around to find Blaine looking up at him, his expression dismayed. He sat back down beside him, "What  _do_  you remember?"

"From that day?" Blaine studied his lap, "…not much. The doctor said that could happen with the days around the seizure... I think I used to remember more of it, but now it's just…gone."

"Do you remember the graduation ceremony?"

"Pieces," Blaine shrugged. He glanced tentatively at Kurt, "We sang  _Time of My Life_?"

Kurt nodded encouragingly, "You had a solo…"

Blaine nodded, but Kurt could see it in his face—he didn't remember it. Blaine only looked tired; frustrated.

Kurt contemplated telling him about the botched solo; Jeff stepping into save the day... instead he smiled and slid a hand into Blaine's, "You sounded beautiful as always."

Blaine smiled a little for Kurt, but let out a long breath, "…it's just a blank spot with some patches. I remember rehearsals. I remember sitting with everyone else and my hat itching behind my ears… I can even remember the smell of smoke on your clothes, but maybe that's from a different memory."

"It's just one day." Kurt pressed a kiss to the side of Blaine's head.

"Kind of a big day to lose." Blaine murmured. He coughed into his arm again.

Kurt bit his lip as he thought. Suddenly, he slid off the edge of the bed and moved to look through the remaining boxes. He studied the labels scribbled across the cardboard until he spied the one he was looking for. 'New York' was printed in Blaine's unmistakable blocky print across one of the flaps surrounded by spots of color scribbled in a Sharpie'd display of confetti. He shoved the thing across the floor to Blaine.

Blaine looked up from his knees to peer at the box; a smile crept across his face, "You brought this with?"

"Of course I did," Kurt settled back down beside Blaine and fished his keys from his pocket. He slid a key down the seam until the lid popped open. He sat back and watched Blaine pull out its contents, "…do you remember packing it?"

Blaine nodded slowly, "We started the same day you got the letter for your internship…all the things we had to have in the city together."

"That's right," Kurt pulled out a framed picture of them together and smiled at it fondly.

Blaine pulled out a mason jar of receipts and smiled, "I wish we'd thought to start collecting our Lima Bean receipts earlier. We must have spent a grand in there by now."

"It could be worse. Emily just told me she's been giving us free refills for two years." Kurt took the jar and squinted through the glass at the tangle of receipts.

"Refills are always free, though." Blaine frowned as he twirled Kurt's prom crown between his hands.

"Only for us apparently." Kurt laughed quietly. He pulled a piggy bank from the box and shook it beside Blaine's ear, "And despite her charity, our New York coffee fund is sounding absolutely pathetic."

"We'll start collecting again," Blaine dug in his pocket and showed off three loose pennies. He dropped them down into the bank, "Starting today."

"At this rate, we'll be wired on caffeine every hour of the day." Kurt smiled and rolled his eyes before replacing the bank in the box.

Blaine pulled a Regional's program from the bottom of the box and flipped it open, "This is from when you were still at Dalton…I don't remember putting this in here."

"I put it there," Kurt smiled; blushed, "It's special to me."

Blaine rubbed a thumb over the set list, a warm smile played at the corners of his mouth, "If you hadn't buried Pavarotti's casket, I'd probably have shoved that in here, too."

"Can you imagine the smell?" Kurt snorted.

Blaine made a face, "I didn't mean with him inside."

Kurt laughed a little and stared down into the box, "Do you remember all of these things? Why they're special?"

"Of course I do." Blaine rifled through the other contents of the box , his eyes drifting over the items slowly.

"What's one day compared to all of this then, hmm?" Kurt pressed a kiss to Blaine's shoulder, "Don't let the graduation thing get to you."

Blaine slid a hand under Kurt's chin and tipped his head up, "I love you."

"Try to not forget that," Kurt smiled.

"Never," Blaine leaned in and pressed a quiet kiss to Kurt's mouth, "I promise."


	24. Chapter 22

Trip squirmed in his chair as he looked around at the other patients in the room. A glance back at Blaine confirmed that his eyes were still closed. With a loud sigh, he groped along the side of his recliner until his fingers lit upon a lever. He pushed it down and the footrest popped up with a loud enough creak to startle Blaine into opening his eyes.

"I don't understand how this place has enough La-Z-Boy's donated to seat every obese man in the U.S., but no one's thought to donate a can of WD-40." Trip pressed his heels into the footrest experimentally.

"Maybe that can be your donation." Blaine yawned.

"Some people leave park benches in honor of people they know having cancer, I leave WD-40," Trip smiled, "I think I like that."

"I'm sure they can stick a piece of duct tape on there to commemorate the both of us." Blaine sniffled.

Trip scanned the others a second time, before pushing his shoulders into his chair until it reclined back further with a groan, "This is a real ball; I've been longing for the day that I got to watch you throw a minor hissy fit over an IV and then proceed to spend three hours drifting in and out of naps for longer than you can possibly imagine."

"You can go, I don't need someone to sit here with me," Blaine shrugged, "Just thought you might like a chance to get off campus for a few hours."

"Right, you spend two weeks sitting with me when I'm a goddamn stranger and I leave your sorry ass when you need me here for a couple hours," Trip turned his head to look up at Blaine, "I know you think I'm a dick, but you really think I'd sink that low?"

"You come by your abrasiveness honestly," Blaine shrugged again, but when Trip lifted his phone to respond to a text he frowned, "… I can make sense of most of the things you do, save for one."

Trip tucked his phone back into his pocket and rolled his eyes, "Fine, I'll bite. What is the thing you can't figure out?"

"What's your angle with David Karofsky?"

"if I didn't know any better, I'd swear you wanted to jump the guy's bones with the way you perseverate on the him and Kurt living together thing." Trip sat up and attempted to bully the back of his chair into rising too.

"I want nothing to do with David fucking Karofsky," Blaine snarled.

"Take it down a notch, Cujo," Trip had managed to coax his chair up a few degrees, but it remained leaned a little too far back, "And I don't know what you're referring to anyway."

"You do too," Blaine let out a frustrated sigh, "You single him out and go after him like prey ninety percent of the time, but the second an adult is anywhere in the picture, you lay off. What gives?"

"He's not out to his dad so I'm not about to be the one to nail him to that particular cross… and Hummel's dad kinda freaks me out," Trip got up out of his seat and went around behind it; he gave it a hard kick, "As for my predatory decisions, he's prone to bouts of extreme embarrassment; of course I go out of my way to make him squirm a bit."

"Trip, Karofsky is…well, he's David Karofsky." Blaine sniffled and dug through his pocket for a tissue, "He's not exactly a saint. Be careful."

"Would you relax?" Trip rolled his eyes, "Kurt doesn't seem to mind him too much. They  _live_  together."

Blaine folded his legs up into his chair, "I know they do, but Kurt's on some weird personal mission he won't explain to me with all of this. Besides, Kurt's too kind for his own good and a lot more willing to forgive Karofsky than I am."

Trip snorted, "Hearing you, of all people, say someone is too nice for their own good is positively laughable."

"I mean it," Blaine twisted his Kleenex between his hands, "He's not the ice queen people think he is."

"Of course you think that; you're fucking him, idiot," Trip let a long breath out his nose, "There's nothing wrong with him being a little bit of a bitch, though."

"He's not a—"

"Okay, fine; whatever. He's as cuddly as a fucking kitten," Trip gave Blaine a pointed look, "Interesting though that you're so open to looking past his snark and me being an all around asshole, but you won't give David a chance. I know for a fact he asks Kurt about how you're doing all the time."

"Fine; I'll be nicer," Blaine's eyes drifted over the IV line; he sniffled again, "I know you're standing by the claim that you're harassing him for a bit of a laugh but…are you maybe a little interested in him?"

"He's gay and he has a working dick, right?" Trip folded his arms across his chest and grinned.

Blaine smiled apologetically when a woman and her friend looked over at them in alarm, "A little less crudeness would be appreciated."

"Your mouth is just as awful as mine," Trip pulled out a new tissue for Blaine and offered it to him.

Blaine took the tissue but made a face at Trip, "My crassness is illness related."

"I'm sick too. I'm a chronic asshole," Trip smiled, "But Fine. Let me rephrase: By your definition of interested, no. By my definition… maybe."

Blaine sighed, "Trip, would it kill you to let someone in a little bit?"

"You've been ripping David apart for the past fifteen minutes, and now you want me to take the guy out to dinner? Is this a tumor thing? Do I need to grab a nurse?" Trip narrowed his eyes at him as though scrutinizing for signs of illness.

"You know what I'm trying to say. I don't just mean David. What about the Warblers? You've been in school for a couple weeks now, and I know you're going to practice… are you getting along with them?"

"Ya know it's crazy how close we've gotten; it's like we can read each other's minds," Trip leaned in closer to Blaine as though divulging a secret, "We show up to class and we're all dressed in the same outfit! Crazy, right?"

Blaine let out an exasperated sigh, "Eventually you're gonna have to start letting people in, Trip. Wasn't that the point of coming out here?"

"The point of coming out here was for me to get out," Trip snapped.

Blaine regarded him quietly, "Your temper is even worse than mine is."

"Yeah well, not all cancers have a physical origin," Trip muttered.

Blaine smiled almost sadly, "You're poetic whether you want to be or not."

"And you have a brain tumor that makes you say stupid shit," Trip retorted, "Change the subject."

"To what?"

"Anything not me." Trip's scowl softened. He motioned a hand toward Blaine's head, "You had a doctor's appointment yesterday, yeah?"

"If you get to change the subject then so do I; pick something else." Blaine turned his attention to the blanket draped across his lap and focused on tucking the edges of it around his knees.

"Fine, lets talk about your favorite thing."

"That being?"

"Kurt."

 

* * *

Kurt had known living with David Karofsky would be a little awkward at first…okay, really, really awkward. What he hadn't expected was David nearly tripping over himself with anxiety every time they occupied the same room. After the first forty eight hours, Kurt began to wonder if people had been right about him moving in with Karofsky, though for much different reasons than had been everyone's initial concern.

 

The adjustment was slow. On the first full day in the apartment, Karofsky shut the front door on his hand in an attempt to get out when he walked in on Blaine and Kurt cuddled on the couch together watching a movie. On the second day, he apologized three times for coming into the bathroom while Kurt was brushing his teeth before closing himself up in his bedroom again. But then on the third day, David had made enough coffee for both of them and they sat across from one another at the kitchen table. They hadn't said much to the other; instead they'd stared intently at their respective laptops. David had smiled awkwardly and asked Kurt if he'd read the headlining story on Yahoo. Kurt asked for the link and offered a few comments on it once David sent it to him. On the fourth day, Kurt made the coffee. By the end of the first week, Kurt had pounded hard on David's door when his alarm had been going off for almost five minutes straight.

Kurt had decided their ultimate bonding moment was when they'd sat down and plotted a list of things they would need for the apartment that they couldn't put off buying any longer before making a joint trip to Target.

"We need this."

"Why?" David stared down into the cart at the box of Swiffer dusting wipes, "We already got the damn Swiffer, why do you need more shit for it?"

"David, if we buy the Swiffer and not the wipes, it would be like trying to use a mop without getting it wet first." Kurt let out an exasperated sigh and glanced back down at their list. He frowned, "Why do we need WD-40?"

"Your door creaks," David shrugged, "And one of the cupboard doors does, too."

Kurt found the can and pulled it off the shelf. He turned it to read the label, "Do you think this would work on a squeaky bed, too?"

David shrugged, "Did you try tightening up all the screws in your bed frame?"

Kurt dropped the can down into the shopping cart and crossed the item off of their list, "I don't even know if it's a problem yet."

"Then why—oh." David flushed red. He cleared his throat awkwardly, "What's next?"

"Windex, a hand towel for our bathroom, and laundry detergent," Kurt tucked the piece of paper back into his pocket, "If you don't mind Tide, we can share the detergent."

"Fine by me." David gazed down the aisles. He smiled absently when they passed the Back to School section, "When I was a kid, I loved getting all of my school stuff."

Kurt smiled, too, and turned to look over the displays of paper and locker accessories, "Me too. Remember the Lisa Frank stuff?"

"That was a girl thing," David scoffed, but then, seeming to remember himself, mumbled a quick, "…I think."

"Well, I for one, loved all of it," Kurt turned their cart into an aisle of folders and notebooks to look closer, "Let me guess, you had the Pokemon notebooks."

David laughed, "Nah, I never got into that shit. I had Power Rangers."

"That's right! You stole my planner in third grade—the one with the red power ranger on the front and the pink one on the back, remember?" Kurt scowled at David, but there was no venom behind it.

David laughed and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck awkwardly, "I didn't even know what the hell it was. What kind of eight year old has a planner?"

"I liked organizing," Kurt shrugged, "My mom died the year before, so I liked feeling like I was in control of something even if it was just copying the daily schedule off of the board… Mrs. Murphy used to give me the lesson plan schedule a day in advance so I could write it down."

Karofsky looked stricken before looking down at his feet, "…I'm sorry for taking it."

Kurt laughed hollowly, "It was years ago, David. If you plan on apologizing for every bad thing you ever did to me, there won't be room for much else in terms of conversation."

David nodded and glanced back up at Kurt, "I might apologize for things as they come up, though… is that okay?"

Kurt studied David's face for a moment before moving the cart forward again slowly, "Sure. If you want."

They walked through the school supplies in silence. Kurt pulled a couple nondescript folders and notebooks out for the classes he was taking, but they otherwise just gazed at the displays until they'd made there way through the section.

Kurt pulled a hot pink folder covered in glitter out of a display. He laughed in delight, "I  _have_  to get this for Blaine."

"…Does he like glitter?" David asked, but then added, "Not judging or anything. Just wondering."

"No; no, it's just a joke between us." Kurt smiled fondly at the folder before dropping it into the cart, "Come on, we still need to go get that towel for the bathroom."

Karofsky followed behind Kurt and stood quietly while Kurt fussed over the color of their hand towel, "Hey, Kurt?"

"Hm?" Kurt pulled a black towel out and scrutinized it with a wrinkled nose.

"How long have you and Blaine been together?"

Kurt blinked, "Um…. about a year and a half now. Why?"

David shifted his weight from foot to foot, "Dunno; you two are just…"

"Just what?" Kurt folded the towel and replaced it before pulling out a different one.

David shrugged, "Really close."

"I'd hope so," Kurt raised an eyebrow as he glanced back at David, "That's it?"

"What's it?"

"You just wanted to know how long Blaine and I have been dating for the hell of it?" Kurt pulled out a second towel and looked between the colors thoughtfully.

"I guess," David shrugged again; blushed.

"Well, if you were hoping to figure out if you could get me to break up with him and date you, it's not going to happen," Kurt held the towels out toward David, "The honey beige or the eggplant?"

David stumbled back a step, "I didn't; Jesus, Hummel, I wasn't trying to find out if—"

"Honey beige or eggplant? I need an answer." Kurt tapped his foot impatiently.

"The brown one. Seriously though, Kurt, it wasn't like that, I just wanted to know—"

"Relax, David, It was a joke; I do that sometimes, as do most people," Kurt dropped the selected towel down into the cart. He glanced back at Karofsky with a smirk and added quietly, "And I'm pretty sure I know who you're actually interested in."

"What?" David frowned.

"I didn't say anything." Kurt folded the second towel neatly and replaced it on its shelf.

David nodded slowly; his cheeks still red, "Oh… Are we done?"

Kurt held up the list for David to see, "Is everything crossed off of our list?"

"No."

"Then, no, we're not," Kurt started back down the aisle. He looked over his shoulder when he didn't hear the hum of the cart's wheels behind him, "Should I just leave you here then, or do you plan on coming with?"

David shook his head and pushed the cart toward Kurt, "Coming."

"I knew I'd have to be your tutor in all things cultured and classy, but I had no idea how much work your daily social skills were going to take," Kurt sighed, "Thank God you've started working; social interaction with a few people who haven't taken one too many hits to the head should be good for you."

David smiled a little, "Most of them are ex-football players."

Kurt rolled his eyes, "Well then, thank God you have Blaine and I for stimulating conversation."

"And Trip." David added.

Kurt gave him a pointed look, "Trip Morgan and social skills should never be used in the same sentence."

"It was a joke; believe it or not, I can make those, too," David smiled a little, "And I don't think you hate him as much as you say you do."

"Trip and I have a seventy-thirty kind of relationship where seventy percent of the time I hate him and thirty percent of the time I tolerate him," Kurt paused by a display of candles and picked one up to smell, "I should probably edit that to sixty-five hate and thirty-five tolerate. He went with Blaine to chemo today."

"I don't get why you didn't just go. You're half an hour from him."

"I was in class this morning when he had to leave, and we're attempting to go five days without each other to adjust to work and school schedules once they get into full swing," Kurt dropped the candle down into the cart, "His idea, not mine. I think he thinks he's being helpful by giving me some me time, but he doesn't get that I don't go with him to appointments out of some sort of obligation. I like going."

David was quiet beside him again.

Kurt sighed, "I know it sounds cliched and corny to say I  _want_  to go sit there, but—"

"It's not," David cut him off, "…it's nice."

Kurt studied Karofsky as they walked down another aisle, but then turned his attention back to the task at hand: selecting a rug for in front of their door, "See any winners?"

Karofsky looked over the rugs and finally pointed at one with the words  _'Home is Where the Heart Is'_  printed across the front in scripted font, "How about that one?"

Kurt studied it and then looked at David's face for any sign of a joke. When he found none, he looked back at the rug, "It's really gay."

David looked at Kurt in shock, "It is not!"

Kurt picked it up from a stack of others with a smirk. He dropped it down into the cart, "It's also half off."

They moved slowly through the aisles until everything was crossed off of their list.

When they returned home, they settled into their own routines. David oiled Kurt's door and the cabinet. Kurt hung up the towel in the bathroom and lit their new candle. When he heard a strange slapping sound near the door, he turned to find David standing by the door, staring down at their rug.

He turned to grin at Kurt, "You're right. It's kinda gay."

Kurt moved to stand beside him and look down at the thing, "Really, really gay."

They looked back at one another and burst into laughter.

* * *

_3 Days Later…_

 

Kurt glanced up from his textbook when he heard the front door slam. He smiled at David, "Hey, how was work?"

"Good; intense," David was sweaty and his shirt was smudged with dirt, but he was smiling. He nodded toward Kurt's book, "Homework on a Friday night?"

"If I do it now I can focus on Blaine all weekend," Kurt smiled; shrugged, "Besides, I start work in a couple weeks, and I'd rather be in the routine now of getting this done than trying to figure it out later."

"Schedule guy; right," David nodded, he lifted a hand to show off a six pack of beer, "Any chance I can get you to take a break later?"

"How did you even get that?"

"A fake ID," David gave Kurt self-satisfied smile.

"You could have bought anything and you got beer?" Kurt wrinkled his nose.

"Come on, Hummel, grow a pair." David shook the pack and the bottles clinked quietly against one another.

Kurt raised an eyebrow, "I'm assuming it's not even light beer."

David groaned, "You're going to make me drink alone?"

"Trip's coming over tonight, I'm sure he'd be happy to humor you." Kurt looked back down at his book and scribbled down a note.

David sat down on the floor and pulled his shoes off, but he didn't respond.

Kurt looked up again, "Problem, Dave?"

"Huh?" David looked up from his feet.

Kurt twirled his pencil between his fingers, "I know you're not exactly brilliant, but you're not stupid. You know what I'm talking about. "

David blushed, "…I don't really know what his deal is… I don't know how he'd take it if it's just me and him drinking."

"It's Trip; offer him a beer, he'll make a completely inappropriate joke, and then either take the drink or not; it's not exactly that big of a deal, Dave," Kurt scrutinized David's face, "… unless it's a big deal to you."

David frowned, but his cheeks were still red, "What are you saying?"

"I'm not saying anything," Kurt looked back down at his notebook and doodled a little heart, "… I'm just…considering possibilities."

"I don't like him." David said quickly.

"I never said you did," Kurt looked back up at David and smiled.

"I don't!"

"Mhm."

"I mean it, Hummel. I'm not into him." David got back up and moved to the kitchen to shove the beer in the fridge.

"Oh, so you don't think he's attractive?" Kurt smirked knowingly and sat back in his chair to watch David over the top of the breakfast bar.

"Of course I think he's attractive," David snapped, "Don't you?"

Kurt laughed, "Yes, I do. It's a shame such gorgeous eyes are getting wasted on someone who's such an ass."

"I don't think—" David cut himself off; shook his head.

"You don't think what?" Kurt tilted his head to study David's face.

"Nothing," David sighed, "What time are they coming over?"

Kurt glanced at his phone, "An hour or so. Go shower; I can smell you from here."

David snorted and moved toward the bathroom, "Beer's in the fridge if you change your mind."

"Noted." Kurt rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to his homework, but he couldn't focus. He plucked his phone back off of the table and found Blaine's number in his contacts.

He rested his phone between his shoulder and ear and flipped idly through the chapter he was supposed to have read for Monday until he found the end.

"H'lo?"

"Are you high?" Kurt frowned to himself.

"What? No!" Blaine sounded indignant.

"Sorry, your voice sounded funny." Kurt pulled a corner off of a piece of notebook paper and tucked into his book before closing it.

"I have a cold." Blaine sniffled as though for proof, "What's up?"

"Just checking if you were still coming over." Kurt yawned.

"That's the plan if you're up to it," Kurt could picture Blaine smiling on his side of the line, "You sound beat."

"Of course I'm up to it—I haven't seen you in a week," Kurt stifled a second yawn, "But I can't promise that I won't nap on your shoulder."

"I look forward to it. Trip's got Warblers' practice, but he's supposed to be swinging by to get me as soon as he's finished. I'll see you in a bit."

"Can't wait; love you." Kurt ended the call and gathered up his things; there was no way he could focus anymore. He busied himself trying to choose a new outfit until he heard the bathroom door open.

"I'm done in the bathroom if you need it or something." David appeared in his doorway in a clean white t-shirt and jeans, his hair still dripping wet.

"Thanks," Kurt pulled a coral colored sweater out of his closet and inspected it critically, "I talked to Blaine. They'll be over when Trip's done with the Warblers."

"The what?" David blinked.

"Dalton's glee club." Kurt laid the sweater out on his bed and flipped through the other shirts in his closet.

"He sings?"

"Apparently," Kurt quirked an eyebrow, "I've never actually heard him, but Blaine has, and he says he's amazing."

David nodded absently, "Why won't he sing for you?"

"I've never asked him to," Kurt shrugged, "Maybe you can get him to sing."

David glared at him, "If that's meant to be some sort of dirty joke—"

"It wasn't, but the fact that you thought it was says something about where your mind is, David," Kurt looked over Karofsky disdainfully, "Now if you'll excuse me, I have a boyfriend who I am openly trying to impress, so I need to change my shirt. Out."

David grumbled to himself as he pulled the door shut.

"And David?" Kurt called through the closed door, "Wear that camel colored shirt of yours."

"Why?" David called back; his tone dubious.

"It looks nice on you." Kurt dropped his button down into his laundry hamper and pulled a fresh undershirt from his dresser.

"Hummel, I told you I don't have anyone I'm trying to im—"

Kurt sighed and pulled his door open again to give David a pointed look, "You never need a reason to dress nicely, Dave, just put it on."

Karofsky let out an indignant sigh, but he went back to his room and closed the door.

Kurt smirked to himself; satisfied. He'd train David Karofsky yet.

It ended up being another two hours before there was a knock on the door.

Kurt pulled it open and wrapped his arms around Blaine immediately; inhaling the smell of him deeply, "Mm, you took forever."

Blaine hugged him back and smiled into his shoulder, "Sorry."

Trip shoved past them into the apartment; a birdcage dangling from his hand, "Those fucking Warblers are perfection Nazis. Three fucking hours of touch stepping and harmonizing."

Blaine snorted and whispered in Kurt's ear, "Watch out, he's on a rampage."

"Not playing nice with the other kids, Trip?" Kurt pulled out of Blaine's embrace and closed the door. He looked down at the cage, "Is that the bird?"

"No, it's a birdcage with a fucking puppy inside," Trip snapped. He put the cage down on the table with surprising gentleness, "As for the merry band of Warblers, I'm going to break into their dorm rooms and smother them with their pillows."

Blaine rolled his eyes, "You're all bark and no bite. I just talked to your roommate; you sit in the back of the senior commons and sing when they tell you but otherwise don't say a word to anyone."

"How would you know, asshole? We had the same conversation twice today and you didn't even fucking notice," Trip glared at Blaine, "Maybe you're hallucinating."

"Trip, that's enough!" Kurt glowered at Trip and pulled the door back open, "You can get the hell out if you're going to talk like that."

"Hey, come on, both of you settle down," Blaine looked between them tiredly, "Kurt, he's got a right to be pissed—I shouldn't be meddling. Trip, I'm sorry, but you need to settle down; you're being totally out of line."

All three stood frozen for a moment. The tenseness of their silence was laced with happy chirps from the bird.

Trip dragged a hand through his hair, "Fine."

Kurt didn't move from the door; he glared hard at Trip.

Trip sighed, his expression softening when he looked to Blaine, "I'm sorry, all right? I didn't mean it."

"It's fine; you had a long day," Blaine smiled weakly.

Trip looked to Kurt with a little more irritation, "I'll think before I open my mouth, okay? I'm… Blaine's right; it was a shitty day and I'm sorry I'm being a dick about it to you guys."

Kurt held onto the door for a minute longer before closing it quietly, "Don't let it happen again."

Trip crossed a hand over his heart, "Scouts honor."

David cleared his throat awkwardly from his bedroom door, "…everything okay?"

"Everything's fine," Kurt nodded before pressing a hand into Blaine's back and guiding him toward the couch. He glanced over his shoulder at Trip still standing near the door looking suddenly exhausted, "I think Trip could use a drink, though."

David looked over at Trip, too, "You wanna beer?"

"Christ, yes," Trip looked at David gratefully.

David paused as though waiting for Trip to say more, but Trip only sagged down into a chair beside the table and peered into the birdcage. David he nodded and moved toward the kitchen.

Kurt leaned in close to Blaine's ear, "What's wrong with him?"

Blaine glanced over at Trip before speaking quietly, "Bit of a run in with some of his past. He's upset, but he'll mellow out; go easy on him."

"You're too sweet for your own good," Kurt touched a kiss to Blaine's cheek. He frowned and touched a second kiss to his forehead, "You have a fever."

"It's nothing; I feel shitty from chemo," Blaine smiled for Kurt, "How were classes?"

"Fine," Kurt shook his head, "Have you been sick at all today?"

Blaine looked exasperated, "Stop with the chemo talk; I have a head cold and an upset stomach; it's fine— _I'm_  fine—I wanna know about college so I can live vicariously through you. How's campus?"

Kurt searched Blaine's face and sighed, "It's nice; it's fun. I saw Puck today and guess what he was doing?"

"Hitting on women?" Blaine smiled.

"Well, yes, but guess what else?"

"Drugs? Drinking? General miscreant behavior?"

Kurt shook his head, a smile pulling at his mouth, "He was going to class."

Blaine's eyebrows shot up, "Noah Puckerman was going to—are you sure it was him?"

Kurt grinned, "Right? He cut our conversation off because he was afraid of being late _._ "

Blain laughed in delight, "I  _need_  to see that for myself. Do you think he does homework, too?"

"Probably," Kurt giggled, "I'll ask Finn next time I see him."

"Hummel, I'm assuming it's still a no on the beer?" David called from the kitchen, "Blaine, you're not drinking right now, right?"

Blaine twisted around to look at David over the back of the couch, "No, I'm not. The last thing I need is something else messing with my head."

David nodded, "Want anything else? Water or something?"

"Water would be great, thanks," Blaine smiled before turning his gaze to Trip, "You wanna come sit down over here?"

Trip didn't respond, but he got up from his spot at the table, and loosened his tie as he settled down on the other couch.

David came into the room, dropping a bottle of water down beside Blaine and holding out a bottle of beer toward Trip.

Trip took it and looked at the cap, "Gotta bottle opener?"

"Oh, yeah, sorry," David dug his keys out of his pocket and held them out, "Keychain."

Trip popped the lid off of his bottle and took a long drink, his eyes drifting over David's keys, "That piece of shit pickup of yours still running?"

David frowned a little, "There's nothing wrong with my truck."

Trip snorted and offered the keys back, "Sure."

David took the keys and popped the lid off of his own bottle before re-pocketing the keys. He glanced between the couch Kurt and Blaine were occupying and the empty space beside Trip.

"I know I'm pretty, but are you just gonna stand there all night staring at me, or are you gonna take a seat?" Trip smirked and motioned a hand at the empty space beside him.

"Right, I, uh—" David sank down on the couch as far away from Trip as he could get. As though in an attempt to save face over his sudden bashfulness, he glanced over Trip, "You look like Blaine."

"That's offensive." Trip directed a smile toward Blaine good-naturedly.

David motioned a hand at Trip's chest, "I meant the uniform."

Trip glanced down at himself and shrugged off his blazer as though realizing for the first time that he was still wearing it, "I left right after Warbler practice; I needed to get the hell out of there."

"Bad day?" Kurt pulled Blaine's hand into his and massaged his palm lightly. He rubbed at the spot between his thumb and pointer finger, wishing he could massage out the incessant muscle spasms.

Trip snorted and took another drink from his bottle, "You could say that."

"Did the Warblers oust you from solo tryouts?" Kurt turned Blaine's hand over to inspect his fingernails. He made a mental note to coax Blaine into letting him give him a manicure.

"No, they gave me a solo today and they gave me fucking Bocelli," Trip sank back into the couch.

"Bocelli?" David echoed.

"The bird," Kurt supplied; motioning a hand toward the kitchen table where the birdcage still sat, "Whoever the newest Warbler is gets one."

"I brought it to see if you'd consider playing foster parent," Trip looked toward the table too, "I'm afraid I'm going to come home in a rage from practice someday and take it out on the fucking canary."

"Team player, Trip." Blaine warned solemnly.

Trip rolled his eyes and pointed at Blaine with his bottle, "They need you back in there to tell them that. They bitch and moan and gripe at each other more than they sing."

Blaine frowned and Kurt felt him tense slightly at his side, "How's the new council?"

Trip laughed hollowly, "Their favorite card to pull to try and win an argument is to insist that their idea is the idea you would have liked best."

"Jesus," Blaine muttered and shook his head, "…Steve's no good? I was sure he'd be a decent moderator."

"Ha! Steve starts most of the fights," Trip took another drink, "They're all kinds of buddy-buddy with each other the second practice is done, but they can't work together to save a life. We're screwed for sectionals."

"Why don't you rally them?" David spoke up, his gaze moving from Blaine to Trip.

"Me?" Trip barked out a short laugh, he lifted his bottle toward David before taking another drink, "Didn't take you for a funny guy, but good one."

"I'm serious," David blushed a little, but stared at Trip in earnest, "Why not? You're new and you already have a solo, and that's not, like, easy to get, right?"

When David looked to Kurt for confirmation, Kurt bobbed his head up and down, "You either earn solos or you're so good they can't possibly say no."

David looked back at Trip, "So everyone respects the great players, right? And you hang out with Blaine more than any of them do, so if you've got the talent and a solid mentor to back you up, why wouldn't they take you on as a leader?"

"Because I don't  _want_ to be their leader," Trip snapped, "I'm not going to be responsible for a bunch of privileged, whiny assholes."

Karofsky frowned, "If they lose, you lose. And it sounds like they could use someone to act as an example for them."

"I am the last person in the world who should be an example for anyone," Trip put his beer down on the side table and started digging through his pockets, "I'm not the person people look up to."

"Why not?" David pushed, "It's not like you'd have to be a dick about it, if you're all buddies outside of—"

"Because I am the person everybody knows they can hate, that's why!" Trip was on his feet, glaring hard at David. He slung his blazer over his arm and moved toward the porch, "I'm gonna go smoke."

Once the sliding door slid shut with a soft whoosh of air, the other three sat in silence for a long minute.

David stared down into his bottle, a frown line between his eyebrows.

"Is he having a hard time at school?" Kurt asked quietly.

"People at Dalton don't mind him at all," Blaine shook his head, "His roommate, Tommy, is on the Warblers, too. He says Trip doesn't open his mouth during practice except to sing, and he doesn't say much to Tommy outside practice and they  _live_ together so I'm assuming he's not going out of his way to chat with any of the guys in his classes."

"That doesn't make any sense," Kurt frowned, "It's  _Trip._ He doesn't ever shut up and he doesn't exactly go out of his way to be mindful of others."

Blaine looked toward the sliding door almost sadly, "He does whatever he can to keep people at arms length… he's just taking a new approach at Dalton."

Kurt smoothed his fingers over the line of Blaine's thumb. He knew what it felt like to feel the need to create defenses. His snarkiness had not been born out of nothing, "He's scared."

Blaine nodded and sighed, "I don't know what he's doing with the wallflower routine, but his brashness might be partially my fault."

"He's trying to keep his head low," David shook his empty beer bottle beside his ear and stood up, "…the being quiet at school thing, I mean. He doesn't want to draw attention to himself. He even took the lip ring out."

Kurt blinked. He hadn't even noticed its disappearance.

"Some people fit in by making themselves invisible," Blaine cast a dark look toward David who had moved back over toward the fridge, "Some do it by picking on those of us who don't fit in quite so readily."

"Blaine," Kurt stroked a hand over Blaine's arm gently, "Please."

Blaine muttered something unintelligible and sunk low into the couch.

David tapped his bottle against the sliding door and motioned toward it.

Kurt couldn't see how Trip responded to the miming, but David was suddenly back at the fridge retrieving a second bottle, and by the time he finally came back to sit down, Trip was slipping back into the apartment.

"I can smell you from here." Kurt wrinkled his nose as Trip approached.

In response, Trip flung his blazer onto Kurt's lap with a smile.

"I loathe you." Kurt picked up the blazer between his fingertips and moved it to Blaine's lap, "Fortunately for you I'm a good person and, to answer your question from earlier, I'll take the bird for awhile."

"Thanks," Trip sat down in his previous spot on the couch and took the opened bottle David offered him. He glanced around at all of them and took a drink, "… sorry about before. I didn't need to be that much of an ass about stuff."

"You don't need to be as much of an ass as you are ever," Kurt rolled his eyes, "…but thank you for at least acknowledging it this time."

David shrugged, "No harm, no foul."

Trip took another drink out of his bottle, "… uh oh."

"If you spilled on the rug, so help me God, Trip Morgan—" Kurt scanned the carpet with narrowed eyes.

"No, all of my beer is either still in the bottle or in my stomach," Trip shook his head, "Our issue lies in the fact that I am under twenty one, I've got a history of walking a thin line with the law, and I'm supposed to be driving Lance Armstrong and myself home tonight."

"Lance Armstrong had testicular cancer," Blaine looked up from the uniform jacket in his lap to make a face at Trip, "His brain was fine."

"Anyone who chooses to bike a million miles around Europe for fun has to have something wrong with their head," Trip held his bottle up to the lamp on the end table to peer at how much was left, "And that's irrelevant to the current issue."

Kurt groaned, "Damn it."

"I didn't even think about it, Hummel, I swear; I'm not going out of my way to be a pain in the ass this time." Trip set his bottle down on the side table with a frown.

"I know, I know," Kurt tipped his head against the back of the couch and closed his eyes as he thought, "I was the one who suggested Dave offer you a drink in the first place."

Blaine fidgeted with one of the gold buttons on the front of the blazer still in his lap, "… we could stay the night if it's okay with you guys."

Kurt rubbed a hand over his face, "Would your parents go for that?"

"Couldn't hurt to ask," Blaine looked toward Trip, "Would Tom cover for you if you asked him to?"

Trip shrugged, "Maybe, I don't know."

"Only one way to find out. Call him." Blaine already had his own phone up to his ear.

Kurt sat back and listened to the halves of the phone conversations on either side of him. Trip stared down at his knees for the entirety of his exchange.

"Hey, man, it's Trip; listen, I'm out with Blaine and—uh huh, yeah—anyway, I think we're gonna crash at his boyf—yeah, Kurt—yeah….could you co—thanks… You too. Bye."

Blaine's conversation was somewhat more complicated.

"Hey, dad, could—No, I'm fine, could you put mom on? Really, I'm fine, I just need to talk to her...thanks—Mom? Hey—I'm fine, I swear, I just wanted to ask—no, it's okay, but I wanted to ask if it was okay if Trip and I spent the night at Kurt and David's place? I don't think I'm really up to the drive—No! You don't need to come get me, I just wanted to see if you'd mind if I crashed here for the night. They've got two couches and—Mom, it's a couch, not a radiation chamber. It's not going to mess with my head—I took them before I left and I have my stuff for morning—Mom, I told you not to make that appointment—Fine, okay…"

Kurt watched Blaine anxiously, sure that his request was being denied.

Blaine rubbed his free hand over his eyes, "…I'm sure Kurt has Advil or something—uh huh, love you, too. See you in the morning."

Kurt raised his eyebrows in surprise, "She said yes?"

Blaine dropped his phone down to his lap with a groan, "Yes, but Jesus Christ, you'd think the only plausible reason for me ever calling would be to tell them I'm bleeding from my ears or something."

"Wonderful; a big gay slumber party," Trip picked his beer back up with a faint smile, "This is everything you promised Ohio would be and more, Blaine."

David flinched at the comment, but offered no input of his own.

"At least I'm still here to entertain you," Blaine yawned, "And I used to be a lot more fun, I swear."

"Right now all you are is tired," Kurt glanced at his watch, "Do you want to go to bed?"

Blaine rubbed his eyes, "Wouldn't be much of a slumber party if I decided to just go and… and…"

"Pass out." All three filled for him.

Blaine looked mildly amused, "Yeah."

"That's your first word slip up all night," Kurt nudged Blaine's foot with his, "I think you should call it a night just to end on a good note."

Blaine looked toward Kurt's bedroom door almost longingly, "…I could make it another hour."

"Stop feeling guilty," Kurt rolled his eyes, "You stop answering your phone by ten these days and it's currently quarter to eleven, so I know you're ready to drop dead. David had to be up at five this morning and Trip's already regaled us with his long day, so I think it's safe to say we'd all be happy to turn in early."

David nodded his confirmation when Blaine looked between him and Trip hesitantly.

"And I just finished my beer," Trip shook his empty bottle as proof, "Perfect time to call it a night."

"…Okay." Blaine nodded.

"One of the couches has a pull out bed. I'll get you the sheets, Trip." Kurt moved to the front closet and pulled it open.

"Give me a blanket and a pillow and I can just sleep on the couch as is," Trip pulled his tie off and dropped it down on the floor, "And something to cover the bird so he doesn't chat at me all night."

"I think you're going to miss him," Kurt smiled affectionately at the canary before covering its cage with a sheet.

Trip snorted, "Unlikely."

"Blaine, do you want the pull out then?" David stood; already moving to pull the cushions off the couch.

Kurt rolled his eyes as he returned to drop a blanket down on the couch for Trip, "David, please."

Karofsky blinked in confusion, "No?"

"David, I'm going to break this down for you, okay? Blaine and Kurt are boyfriends; lovers; exclusive fuck buddies," Trip unbuttoned his suit shirt and dropped it down on top of his tie, "They share a bed."

David flushed red, "Right."

Trip shook his head and looked back at Kurt, "Can I steal some toothpaste?"

"Sure, but I don't have a toothbrush for you; you'll have to use your finger," Kurt moved to the bathroom and pulled open a drawer. He glanced toward Blaine, "Normally I'd let you use my toothbrush, but I don't want to get you sick, so you'll have to use your finger, too."

"I'm sure we'd both love to use or fin—"

"You're going to stop talking now or I'm not sharing toothpaste." Kurt snapped.

Trip turned a smirk toward Karofsky, "David would still share, right, Dave?"

David stopped his toothbrush halfway to his mouth. He cleared his throat awkwardly, "I—yeah, sure."

"Please don't make me regret letting you stay here anymore than I already do." Kurt shoved a tube of toothpaste against Trip's chest with a scowl.

They brushed their teeth in silence and, because Blaine was leaned against the counter already half asleep on his feet, Kurt did his shorter moisturizing routine.

"Come on, you, let's get to bed." Kurt grabbed Blaine's hand and pulled him out of the bathroom.

Trip followed them out and settled down on the couch, "Sweet dreams, darlings; try to keep it down."

Kurt rolled his eyes , "You know where I am if you need anything."

"If I need anything I'll probably be bothering David," Trip winked toward David.

David paused outside his door; he looked over Trip thoughtfully for a moment, "Knock first."

All three stared in surprise at David. A slow smile slid over Trip's face; he nodded, "Noted."

"Right; night then." David closed his door and left the other three to blink at one another in confusion.

Trip sat back with a grin, "Interesting."

"Trip," Blaine gave him a warning look.

"Go to bed Blaine," Trip chuckled, "I'll be a good boy; I promise."

When Blaine opened his mouth to argue, Kurt pushed him into his bedroom and closed the door, "Don't worry about him. You said it yourself, he's all talk."

Blaine stared at the closed door for a moment before moving away from it reluctantly, "Any chance you'll part willingly with pajama pants or something so I don't freeze to death during the night?"

Kurt moved to his closet and peeled off his sweater that was beginning to itch horribly, "There's a pair of your pajama pants in the nightstand drawer."

"Why do you have my pajama pants?" Blaine pulled open the drawer and shook out the pants.

"I stole them last spring. It was a part of a grand scheme to make you sleep over as much as I could get you to once we moved to the city by eliminating as many excuses to go home as possible."

"Why would you assume I'd need pajama pants or any clothes at all to sleep at your place?" Blaine sat down on the edge of the bed and slid his jeans off.

"Good point." Kurt hung up his sweater and pulled out a pair of pants of his own, "Maybe I like to wear them sometimes."

"Kinky."

"No, there is nothing at all kinky about Joe Boxer plaid pants with a hole in the knee," Kurt folded his pants and placed them neatly in their proper place before turning to smile at Blaine, "They are, however, ridiculously comfortable, and they make me think of you."

"Do they even fit you?" Blaine laughed and helped Kurt fold back the comforter.

Kurt smiled sheepishly, "They are admittedly a little short on me. If you tell anyone I've let those things touch my body, you're a dead man."

Blaine crossed a finger over his heart, "Never."

"Good," Kurt smiled, "Now get in bed before you fall asleep on your feet."

"Yes, sir," Blaine slid under the covers and watched Kurt flip off the light before stumbling back across the room and climbing into bed beside him.

Kurt pushed at Blaine's shoulder, "You're on my side of the bed and you know it; move over."

Blaine complied but laughed quietly when he snuggled back in with Kurt, "Your feet are freezing."

"They are not, yours are just a thousand degrees," Kurt pressed his toes into the tops of Blaine's feet, "But I wouldn't complain if you wanted to share a little body heat."

"Is that a come on?" Blaine scooted in even closer until their legs were tangled and he could feel the warmth of Kurt's breath against his nose.

"No, your immune system is shit and I don't want to be responsible for getting you any sicker than you already are," Kurt slid a few inches back, "I probably shouldn't even be this close to you right now."

Blaine suddenly wrapped himself around Kurt in a tangle of limbs; he pulled at him until Kurt found himself rolled on top of Blaine's little frame.

"Cut it out, first I was worried about killing you with germs, now I feel like I'm going to crush you." Kurt squirmed to roll back off, but Blaine kept his arms and legs wrapped around him tightly.

"You couldn't crush me if you tried," Blaine scoffed, "Besides, I'm warm right now; are you going to deny me this one small comfort?"

"Fine. Could you at least untangle yourself from me? I'm getting claustrophobic."

Blaine lowered his legs back down to the bed, but his arms remained wrapped around Kurt's back, "I like this."

"The thrill of potential asphyxiation?"

Blaine laughed, "No. Sleeping over."

"We've had sleepovers before at your place." Kurt folded his arms on Blaine's chest and rested his chin on them.

"I know, but this is what I imagined we'd be doing this year if we'd gone to New York," Blaine slid his hands forward until they were cupping Kurt's face, "Can we do this more often?"

"Of course we can," Kurt leaned in closer to the warmth of one of Blaine's hands, "I'll start making a list of excuses we can use so your parents won't mind."

"Mm, 'kay," Blaine yawned, "Also baths. I took a bath a few days ago and it was nowhere near as nice as when you were there with me."

"That's going to have to be at your place, we only have a shower here," Kurt brushed a thumb absently over Blaine's chest, "But I'm sure we could arrange something."

Blaine fell silent; his fingers sliding back down Kurt's shoulders to ghost over his back in slow, lazy patterns. A sudden giggle from Kurt reengaged him, "Am I tickling you?"

"No," Kurt giggled again, "I'm just trying to imagine you suddenly deciding to draw yourself a bath. That doesn't seem like you at all."

"I was stressed and my nose was stuffed up; I thought a bath would help." Blaine prodded Kurt between two ribs, "It's not that strange."

"I'm sorry, you're right," Kurt was still giggling, "I just—the mental picture I have; I wish you could see it."

Blaine was quiet for a minute, but then suddenly he was giggling too, "Can you imagine Trip deciding to take a bubble bath?"

Kurt burst into a renewed fit of laughter, "Oh my God—like with candles and bath salts and everything."

Blaine laughed harder, "Better yet, imagine Karofsky. With a little towel turban on and Enya playing "

Kurt rolled off of Blaine and tried to stifle his laughter with a hand, "Oh my God, I don't want to picture that."

Blaine giggled, "I'd be okay with my memory glitching and erasing this entire conversation."

Their laughter quieted until they were both silent. Blaine rolled onto his stomach and groped around Kurt's nightstand until he found the box of Kleenex.

"Don't you dare drop a used tissue in my bed; the trash can is by the door." Kurt nudged Blaine with his foot.

"You're going to make me get out of bed to throw this away? Can't I just put it on the nightstand and deal with it in the morning?"

"No, you may not. Drag the trashcan over here and you won't have to get up again."

"But what if I get out from under the covers and catch a chill and then get even sicker?" Blaine tucked himself further under the comforter, "You'd feel awful."

"You're such a drama queen. Just go do it." Kurt yawned and closed his eyes.

"If I'm a drama queen, what does that make you?" Blaine muttered under his breath as he slid out of the bed.

He returned noisily; dragging the trashcan across the floor and grumbling as he slid back under the covers, but Kurt paid his griping no mind. Once Blaine was settled, he scooted back in closer to him, "When did you take your bath?"

"Huh?"

"The bath you took this week without me. When was it?"

Blaine laughed quietly, "Um, Tuesday; why?"

"That was the same day you had a doctor's appointment," Kurt rolled onto his stomach and turned his face toward Blaine, "Was that what stressed you out?"

"Goodness, look at you, Sherlock," Blaine teased, "Your attention to detail is spectacular."

"Was it?"

Blaine sighed, "Yes."

"You told me it was fine," Kurt pressed.

"It was," Blaine hugged his arms around a pillow and stifled a yawn.

"It was fine but it stressed you out." Blaine didn't need to see Kurt's face to know he was looking at him with an expression of disdain and anxiety; a look he was becoming a little too accustomed to.

He was quiet for a long minute; thinking.

"Blaine," Kurt's tone was tense; nervous. He reached out and wrapped a hand around Blaine's arm.

Blaine pulled his arm out from under his pillow and found Kurt's hand. He ghosted his fingers over the soft skin of his palm, "I'm 'an especially unique case'."

Kurt was still beside him, "…what does that mean?"

"It means I'm as special as I've always been," Blaine traced the smooth surface of Kurt's fingernails beneath the pads of his fingertips, "It also means my doctors don't know what the hell is going on with the stuff creeping around in my head."

Kurt's fingers trembled just a little beneath Blaine's, "Is the treatment working?"

Blaine stilled Kurt's fingers between his, "It's killing cancer cells."

"But?"

Blaine was quiet for another minute, "My feet keep falling asleep."

Kurt felt Blaine's fingers tighten around his, "Why?"

"That's the part they don't know," Blaine rubbed his thumb absently against the underside of Kurt's fingers, "Everything that's great about our brains being complicated turns kind of shitty when there's stuff growing in there that shouldn't be."

"Growing." Kurt echoed hollowly.

"I didn't mean to say—" Blaine cut himself off; his fingers stilled against Kurt's.

"But that's what's happening, isn't it? The chemo's killing stuff, but there's more." Kurt's voice was a practiced calm.

"They're good doctors," Blaine spoke quietly, "And the chemo's not  _not_  working per say… they want to be more aggressive with it."

"Isn't that what they did this summer?" Kurt's voice wavered, "How much more aggressive can they get?"

Blaine slid in so close his forehead bumped Kurt's, "I'll be fine. They know what they're doing."

"Trip says that—"

"Never listen to a word Trip has to say about anyone in peoples' service industries; he's bitter and biased and hates them all," Blaine smiled and touched a kiss to Kurt's nose.

Kurt pulled his fingers out of Blaine's hold and pushed himself up. When Blaine sat up beside him, he turned to search his face. Before Blaine could say anything, Kurt threw his arms around him and hugged him a little too hard.

"Kurt," Blaine returned the embrace more gently, "Hey, it's okay; this is just part of what they do, they mess around with drugs and stuff until they figure out what works. It's not that unusual."

"Says the especially unique brain cancer patient." Kurt whispered into Blaine's shoulder.

Blaine pushed at Kurt's shoulders until he could make out his face in the pale light coming in through the window, "Listen to me; it was a frustrating appointment and a bad day. I didn't feel good, my parents got into a fight, my grandma called me, and then the news at the appointment was neutral—not good, not bad—I wouldn't have mentioned this as casual pillow talk if I thought it was something worth fretting over, okay?"

Kurt was quiet.

"Kurt, come on," Blaine pulled Kurt back into a hug, "It's alright."

"Do you promise?" Kurt's voice shook.

Blaine didn't hesitate, "Yes."

Kurt remained still in Blaine's embrace for a long minute before nodding his head, "Okay."

"Okay." Blaine echoed. He let go of Kurt and slid back down in the bed, "Come here; I'll play big spoon tonight."

Kurt took in a calming breath as he settled down under the covers and forced his tone to be light, "You think you can handle big spoon?"

"Of course I can," Blaine snuggled in behind Kurt and wrapped an arm around him.

Kurt shifted a little until he was comfortable and laced his fingers between Blaine's, "I think I like Little Spoon; kind of a cushy job."

"Do not mock Little Spoon," Blaine squeezed Kurt's hand, "It's a big responsibility."

"Little Spoon's job is to get cuddled." Kurt retorted. He felt lighter already, the previous conversation melting into the recesses of his mind as his body relaxed into the warm shape of Blaine behind him.

"On the contrary, Little Spoon is responsible for being so irresistibly cuddly that Big Spoon wants to remain Big Spoon," Blaine kissed the top of Kurt's head, "And you're doing a great job, I might add."

Kurt's words were slurred with a yawn, "Mm, I'm adding letting me be Little Spoon to our list of things to do more often."

Blaine echoed Kurt's yawn; his voice already laced with sleep, "Won' figh' you on tha'one."

Kurt nuzzled in a little closer to Blaine and listened to the sound of his breathing until the slow rhythm lulled him to sleep.

 

* * *

Kurt was staring down at him, and for a moment, Blaine was sure he must have fallen asleep on the couch in the new apartment in Columbus, though he couldn't remember when. But there was something wrong with this picture; something out of place.

 

The smell, the stiffness of a pressed suit against his skin, and… was Kurt crying? Blaine tried to reach a hand up to touch his cheek and offer some comfort. But nothing happened. His hand remained folded over the other one on his chest and his mouth was unmoving. He panicked—the smell was overwhelming and a sudden claustrophobia came over him when he couldn't turn his head from side to side.

Kurt seemed unaware of his plight. He kept crying; a few wet tears falling down onto Blaine's face and burning against the cold skin of his cheek. He was speaking, but Blaine could barely hear it— it had the echoed, distorted quality of sound underwater. He strained his ears to make out the words.

"I miss you. I'm going to miss you everyday."

 _But I'm right here._ It was what he wanted to say, but his mouth still refused to work.

And then Kurt wasn't alone. A bigger figure with dry, solemn eyes was beside him, his arm weaving around Kurt's middle. David Karofsky, Blaine realized with a pang. Kurt turned his face into David's chest and cried in earnest.

 _Kurt, I'm here! I'm right here!_ His head screamed it; everything in him willed it to be voiced.

But David was leading Kurt away and out of sight.

Trip was next, leaned on the edge of—of what? Blaine could just barely make out soft silk and mahogany on either side of him, but he didn't have time to ponder over it. Trip was talking and he had to strain to understand.

Trip's expression was blank; solemn, "What was the point, Anderson?"

Blaine wanted to cry, but, of course, he couldn't. Trip was gone and Blaine was left to stare up at the ceiling… he knew that ceiling. He'd recognize those dark beams of wood anywhere; he'd spent countless Sundays as a child counting them during sermons to pass the time. It was his grandmother's church.

Things suddenly began to make too much sense. His suit; his stiff limbs; the smell…. He recognized that, too, but not from church. He knew that smell from bio labs in high school—dissecting frogs and fetal pigs at the lab tables while resisting the urge to gag.

Dead. He was dead.

But he wasn't; he couldn't be—he could still think and feel and see, but he couldn't tell anyone; warn them it was a mistake. And now the lid on his coffin was closing; the rafters of the church disappearing from sight, the air drawing closer; the darkness growing heavier.

He tried again to cry out, but it was too late; the lid was closed.

And now the reality of it was setting in because suddenly everything hurt. It hurt more than anything he'd ever felt. His bones snapping; skin tearing; muscles being shredded apart. Over and over and it fucking hurt. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt.

He let out one last desperate scream and he felt a shock of pain in his head and he was falling.

He wasn't sure what woke him up—his head smacking the corner of the nightstand, or his body hitting the floor in a tangle of sweat dampened sheets. He struggled in the knot of fabric, sobbing and gasping for air.

Someone was holding onto him tight; too tight. He struggled hard, but the arms didn't move, "Blaine! Shhh, Blaine, you had a bad dream; hey, look at me."

Blaine blinked and stared hard at the face beside his in the dark, "Kurt?"

"That's right," Kurt stroked a hand up and down his arm, "You slept at my place, remember? You fell out of the bed."

"It was a dream," Blaine tried to swallow down his terror; take deep breaths in through his nose, but the smell was still trapped there. Stale air and chemicals and death. He shoved hard out of Kurt's arms and tried to get to his feet, only to stumble and end up back on his knees. He grabbed a hold of the nightstand and lurched himself back upright.

"Blaine," Kurt was right beside him again, "Blaine, what's wrong?"

"I'm going to be—" Blaine tried to swallow down the bile already burning its way up his throat.

Kurt caught a hold of his arm and half dragged him to the bathroom.

He'd barely deposited Blaine on the floor in front of the toilet and turned on the light before Blaine was choking and gagging, but nothing came up. He dry heaved and gulped in too much air.

"Shh, you've got yourself all worked up," Kurt touched a cold washcloth to the back of his neck.

Trip appeared in the open bathroom door, blinking against the light, "What happened?"

"Nightmare," Kurt murmured, a hand still stroking up and down Blaine's back, "Just a nightmare."

Blaine focused on his breathing until he felt the nausea in his stomach ebb and his head quiet apart from a dull ache. He sat back against the wall; his hands still shaking.

He flinched when Kurt's fingers ghosted over the side of his head, "You hit your head on the nightstand."

Blaine nodded mutely.

"Your mother is never going to let you sleep over again," Kurt sighed; brushing his thumb over a tender spot on Blaine's scalp, "What's with you and your sudden affinity for hitting your head?"

Blaine opened his mouth to respond with something equally light or funny, but he couldn't think of anything to say.

"Come here," Kurt slid an arm behind Blaine's back and pulled him closer.

Blaine didn't resist. He turned his too hot forehead into Kurt's neck and focused on the smell of laundry detergent coming off the soft cotton of Kurt's undershirt. He stared down at the white tile of the floor and tried to settle himself.  _Just a dream, just a dream, just a dream…_

Trip's knees suddenly obscured his view of the floor. He held out a glass of water; his expression solemn, "Drink it. You'll feel better."

Blaine took the glass, intending to only take a sip for the sake of being polite, but as soon as the first cool wave of it hit his throat, he realized how dry his mouth was; how much his body craved more. He swallowed down the whole glass, feeling decidedly better when he handed the cup back to Trip.

"It helps, right?" Trip smiled faintly.

Blaine nodded; relaxed against Kurt's shoulder, "Thank you."

The three sat in silence for a long minute.

Trip shifted off of his heels and sat down on the floor, "You s'pose David heard and is just too scared to come see what we're up to?"

"David sleeps like a rock; his alarm goes off for ten minutes before he reacts most mornings," Kurt rolled his eyes. He leaned in close and kissed Blaine's forehead, "You're really warm."

"Tylenol wore off," Blaine muttered.

"I have a bottle of it in my room. Do you want to come back to bed or do you need a minute?" Kurt pulled away from Blaine slowly.

Blaine wiggled his toes briefly, "I think I should sit here for a bit before I go back in."

Kurt nodded, "I'll go grab the Tylenol and bring it in here. Do you have any of those nausea pills with you?"

"Yeah, but I don't need one. I'm fine, I just…" Blaine paused; shook his head, "You were right; I got too worked up is all."

Kurt nodded and got to his feet, "I'll bring the Tylenol in."

Blaine drew his knees up to his chest and rested his chin on them. He looked toward the open bathroom door and then back at Trip, "If I ask you a question, can you just answer it and then drop it?"

"You've never extended that particular service to me when I ask you things, but sure; shoot." Trip shrugged; still blinking at the brightness of the lights.

"What do they use to embalm bodies?"

Trip studied Blaine's face for a moment before answering, "Probably formaldehyde and some other stuff. Your guess is as good as mine."

Blaine nodded absently. He traced his hand over the side of his head until he found the raised bump. He moved his fingers over the spot gently and tried to get a feel for how big it was.

"It's not noticeable." Trip watched Blaine's hand work over the spot.

Blaine dropped his hand back to his lap and nodded, "Good."

Trip glanced down at Blaine's feet, "Are they giving you trouble again?"

"Just the one; I might have just been sleeping on it funny," Blaine tapped his heel against the floor.

Trip nodded, but he looked unconvinced, "Can you walk on it?"

"I don't know," Blaine shrugged, "It just feels like it's asleep."

"What's asleep?" Kurt returned with a fresh glass of water and the promised bottle of pills.

"My foot." Blaine opened his palm for Kurt to shake out the pills.

Kurt's face was immediately anxious, "It is?"

"It was," Blaine shrugged. He cupped his hand over his mouth and swallowed down the pills. He bent his knee and pushed weight down on his foot experimentally, "I think it's fine now."

All three fell silent.

Trip yawned and stretched his arms above his head, "If the show's over, I'm gonna go back to sleep."

"We should head back to bed, too," Blaine pressed his thumbs into the small of his back and stretched until it made a faint popping noise.

"You're feeling okay enough to go?" Kurt hovered close when Blaine pushed himself to his feet.

"Yeah; I'm fine," Blaine smiled, "Besides, your room is like twenty feet from where we're standing."

Kurt nodded, but he watched Blaine's every step until they were back in his bedroom. He voiced a quiet goodnight to Trip before slipping into bed beside Blaine,

"Roll over."

"What? Why?" Blaine squinted into the renewed dark toward Kurt's silhouette.

"I get to be Big Spoon right now." Kurt pushed at Blaine's shoulder until he complied and rolled onto his side, "And I'd rather have you on the side of the bed that doesn't have a nightstand."

Blaine laughed hollowly, "You should get me a guard rail."

Kurt squeezed Blaine's hand in a silent response.

They lay in silence; neither one asleep.

"Are you going to tell me what the dream was about?" Kurt spoke quietly.

Blaine shivered, "I'd rather not talk about it."

Kurt slid in closer to Blaine, "Try to sleep. If you have another bad dream, I'm right here."

"Don't have to tell me twice," Blaine mumbled; his eyes already tired despite the quiet edge of anxiety still tugging at the corners of his mind.

"Blaine?" Kurt whispered.

"Mm?"

"Like you for always."

"Love you…" Blaine mumbled; already asleep again.

Kurt lay awake. He watched the cold white light of the moon shift across the bed and gradually melt to the dusky orange of dawn. Blaine had remained still for hours; the quiet rise and fall of his chest soothing to Kurt's nerves, but never lulling him fully back to sleep. He whispered into the back of Blaine's neck, "You're not very good at keeping secrets."

Blaine mumbled something in his sleep and shifted in closer to Kurt.

Kurt's eyes drifted up the tanned skin of Blaine's neck to the back of his head. The spot of hair Blaine had fretted over a few weeks before had fallen out and left a spot that looked like a lopsided heart just as Kurt had predicted. Kurt touched a kiss to the spot gently, "You're scared, too."


	25. Chapter 23

"Weren't you just wearing a different shirt, like, five seconds ago?" David blinked sleepily from where he was sitting at the table nursing a cup of coffee.

"Yes." Kurt scrambled from his bedroom to the bathroom.

"And the shirt you were wearing five seconds ago was different than the one you were wearing five minutes ago."

"Very good, David; your observation skills are breathtaking." Kurt turned to study his back in the mirror. He let out a long sigh and went back into his bedroom.

David glanced at his phone, "You're gonna be late."

"I am not," Kurt came back out of his room; fastening his feather pin to his vest carefully. He smiled approvingly at it before dashing into the kitchen, "Did you make extra coffee?"

"Put it in a thermos on the counter for you." David motioned a hand toward the breakfast bar. He turned his attention to Bocelli's cage sitting in front of him on the table and whistled at the bird.

"My hero," Kurt pulled an apple out of the fridge and leaned against the counter for a moment to eat it. He watched David poke a finger through the bars of the cage, "He's going to bite you."

"He will not." David rolled his eyes but retracted his finger quickly.

"Do you work today?" Kurt glanced at the clock on the microwave.

"Yeah, but I've got a couple hours before I have to go… what's your plan for the day?"

"Work and lunch with my dad." Kurt shrugged.

"You excited for your new job thing?"

Kurt nodded, "Very, but I'm not sure if I should wear what I have on or—"

"Wear that. You can wear the other thing tomorrow." David looked at Kurt's jeans distastefully, "How are those even comfortable?"

Kurt took a drink from his thermos and looked down at his tight, black pants affectionately, "Any feelings of discomfort are quickly superseded by the fact that I know I look amazing. A better question is how do you feel capable of seducing anyone when you're wearing blue Levi jeans and New Balance sneakers?"

"I'm not trying to draw attention to myself." David shrugged and turned his gaze back to the table.

"Is it that you're not trying to draw in the attention of a cute guy," Kurt threw away the remainder of his apple, but he kept his gaze on David, "Or is it that you're not trying to draw attention to the fact that you're gay?"

David blushed and remained mute.

"That's what I thought," Kurt sighed.

"You think I need to tell more people?" David studied Kurt intently.

"Not at all," Kurt moved back to the bathroom to check his hair again, "Move at your own pace, by all means Dave, but I'm warning you now that if any of those pants of yours find their way into my laundry on accident or get left out in the family room, they might mysteriously disappear."

"You're going to force me to dress gay?" David's tone was incredulous but he smiled slightly.

"No, I'm going to force you to dress adult," Kurt slung his bag over his shoulder and moved toward the door, "That letterman jacket went from cool to depressing the minute Figgins handed you your diploma."

David glared, "Watch it, Hummel."

"Just some honest advice from a friend." Kurt raised his hands in a show of innocence.

"Whatever," David shook his head and waved, "Good luck with the store clerk thing."

"Design intern," Kurt corrected; he moved back into the apartment to snatch his thermos off the counter before gliding out the door, "I'll see you later."

Kurt had convinced himself all morning that the jitteriness in his limbs and the slight flutter in his stomach were signs of excitement, but when he hit the button for the elevator, he couldn't deny it: it wasn't just the thrill of a new experience he was feeling; it was anxiety. He glared and mentally berated himself for being nervous over something so silly.  _It's an internship in a store in Ohio; you have absolutely no plausible reason to be anxious; man up._

Still, the little bit of food and coffee in his stomach churned and he felt a familiar light-headedness as he stepped onto the elevator. Normally the tinny piano music that was played over the speakers irritated him, but today, Kurt liked the sound, if only for a distraction from his sudden, undeniable nervousness. He leaned against the wall, closed his eyes, and listened.

 

* * *

Blaine closed his eyes and listened. Music had always been his second voice; a language he swore he understood better than any of the flat, monotonous syllables of spoken words. It gave a pulse to the things he felt; a confidence that he could say anything he needed to, so long as he could find the right song. Today it was his therapy; a soothing string of notes he knew, without doubt, he could piece together.

 

"Not tired of that song yet?"

Blaine's fingers stumbled at the sudden sound of his father's voice. He opened his eyes and turned to look at John, "No."

"I don't think I've heard you play anything else in a week," John smiled, but the expression was weary. He stepped further into the room and nodded toward the piano, "You used to give your piano teacher fits because you wouldn't stick with a song for more than a few days. You always needed a new challenge."

"I know I can play this song," Blaine traced his fingers over the keys; his thumb pressed down a little too hard, and a quiet note rang out. He cringed and dropped his hand to his lap, "Sometimes it's nice just to feel like you're good at something."

His father was quiet beside him for a moment, "You're good at everything you try to do, Blaine."

Blaine bit back the urge to snort. He glanced up at his father's suit, "Aren't you late for work?"

John looked momentarily disappointed but then he was smiling again, "No, I planned on going in a little late. I was hoping I could convince you to come in today, too."

Blaine frowned. They hadn't discussed his potential employment with his father for weeks, "Go into your office? Why?"

"A paycheck and getting out of the house will be good for you; you need a change in pace," John glanced around the family room, "It's not good for you to be cooped up in here all day."

It was true, the days in the house seemed to be growing increasingly long and Blaine was bored. He'd watched almost five seasons of _Sex and the City_ , smoked a little more weed than he could bring himself to mention to Kurt, and his short-lived infatuation with the culinary creations on  _Cake Boss_  were starting to make him nauseous to look at. Not to mention the fact that it would be nice to report something to Kurt other than his opinion on Carrie Bradshaw's shoes when he called each night, "Yeah… okay."

John's smile was even brighter, "Great you don't need a suit jacket, but you should at least put on a dress shirt. Go change and then we'll head out."

Blaine tested his feet on the ground, but before he could push himself up, his father was hooking a hand under his elbow. Before he could think about it, Blaine recoiled and glared hard at John, "I don't need help!"

John lifted his hand in surrender and took a step back. He cleared his throat, "I'll wait for you in the kitchen; no rush."

"I won't take long," Blaine's skin felt itchy with sudden agitation, but he tried to push it to the back of his mind as he jogged up the stairs and into his room.

He pushed through hangers of clothes carefully, forgetting twice what it was he was looking for, before he found a dress shirt. He pulled it off its hanger and eyed it cynically before sliding it easily over his arms.

The buttons were their own task entirely. He fumbled with them slowly; each missed attempt making him angrier. He cursed his left hand twice and wished he could inflict some sort of harm upon it without creating pain for himself. He only had three left when he suddenly paused at his work. He moved to stand in front of his mirror and looked himself over. The fabric hung awkwardly on his shoulders; looked too wide at his stomach. Even with it still open at the top, he knew there was no way it was going to fit.

He pulled it off over his head and took a little too much satisfaction in crumpling it into a wad of fabric and throwing it across the room. It hit the wall with a completely anticlimactic thump and fell to the floor in a heap. Blaine glared at it, "Fuck you."

Feeling decidedly a little better, albeit childish, Blaine moved back to his closet and selected what he hoped would be deemed worthy office attire before returning downstairs.

His parents were standing close to one another, exchanging quiet words, but upon seeing him, they broke apart and gave him twin, oversized smiles.

His father looked over his khakis and black polo, "Couldn't find your suit?"

"It's too big," Blaine looked down at his outfit, too, feeling suddenly self-conscious, "Does this look bad?"

"Of course not, sweetie," Liz smiled reassuringly, "I made you a smoothie if you're up to it."

Blaine moved to the freezer and pulled out the cup with a grateful smile before taking a chair at the table. He stuck a spoonful in his mouth and made a face, "Why's it so chalky?"

"Protein powder. It's good for you," Elizabeth motioned toward the refrigerator, "If you'd prefer, I could make you eggs."

"I would rather eat actual chalk than eat eggs," Blaine wrinkled his nose and shoved another spoonful of smoothie into his mouth. He looked between his parents, "Why are you both staring at me?"

John turned quickly toward the coffee pot and busied himself filling a thermos, but Elizabeth laughed and took the chair beside Blaine, "Because I'm endlessly amazed that I created such a beautiful boy."

Blaine snorted, "Of course."

Elizabeth frowned when Blaine put his spoon down after one more bite, "How do you feel today? I heard you coughing during the night."

"Okay," Blaine shrugged, "I thought this cold was going away, but it just keeps coming back."

"Did you take your vitamins?" Elizabeth reached out and touched the back of her hand to Blaine's forehead.

"Yes," Blaine pushed her hand away, "And I checked my temperature; I'm a very healthy ninety eight point six."

"I'm glad to hear it; don't push yourself too hard today and make yourself sicker," When Blaine rolled his eyes at her, she frowned, "I mean it, Blaine, you'll wind up putting yourself in the hospital."

"Mom, I'm delivering mail and filing; it's not exactly Olympic level exertion." Blaine stood and crossed the kitchen to dump the rest of his breakfast into the sink.

John screwed a cap onto his thermos and glanced at the clock on the microwave, "I have a meeting at eleven, and I need to get you situated before then; we'd better get going."

Blaine nodded and made for the door, but not before being intercepted by his mother, "Excuse me, mister, I'd like a kiss before you leave."

"I'm not five and this isn't my first day of kindergarten," Blaine huffed, but he touched a quick kiss to her cheek. He smiled despite his irritation, "Love you."

Elizabeth hugged him close, "Remember if you're tired or anything—"

"Mom, seriously, you're going to give yourself an—um, an…." Blaine bit his lip as he thought, "…you'll make yourself sick."

Elizabeth held Blaine back from her by his shoulders and searched his face, "Are you sure you're—"

"Liz, he's fine; let him go," John pressed a hand into the small of Blaine's back and pushed him toward the door.

Elizabeth sighed, "Fine. Have a wonderful day; I love you both."

Blaine moved quickly to the passenger seat of his father's BMW and climbed in. When his father joined him he smiled wearily, "Go now before she thinks of something else to worry over."

"Don't have to tell me twice, sport, but if things get a little too intense for you today, let me know, alright?"

Blaine frowned, "Just keep me away from answering phones."

John chuckled, "I have a secretary to do that, but I'll be keeping you busy with plenty of other projects today."

Blaine nodded, but still, the idea of going into his father's office suddenly made him a little wary. His memory could get fuzzy or he could lash out at someone or who knew what else… He fidgeted in his seat and touched a hand to the side of his head, "I forgot my hat."

"You look fine," John glanced at Blaine, "But if it's throwing you off, we can go back for it."

Blaine dropped his hand back into his lap, "No, I'll… it's fine."

John stopped at a red light and turned his gaze more fully to Blaine. He watched the quick drum of his fingers beside the window before reaching over and squeezing his shoulder, "Remember what I said? You're good at everything you try to do."

Blaine met John's eyes and managed a smile.

John turned his attention back to the road when the light turned green, but he smiled for Blaine, "No reason to be nervous."

 

* * *

Kurt had had little reason to be nervous about his job, but every reason to be be a little apprehensive in regards to his new employer because the only thing ordinary about Darcy Johnson was her last name.

 

Kurt had barely had long enough to register the woman dressed in fifteen colors with hair the color of corn silk was his boss before he was chasing after her between displays of clothing.

She spoke with alarming speed the moment he had confirmed that, yes, he was Kurt Hummel, and she had yet to stop. She never turned back to face him as she pointed at displays, led him into a back room just long enough for him to catch a glimpse of a row of tall reams of paper, and then he was jumping out of the way when she pivoted on her heel and moved back toward the main showroom. Kurt tried to absorb as much of what she was saying as fast as he could, but it was proving to be a losing game. Supply locations, art directors, project managers, the other interns—Kurt felt dizzy with all of the information being unloaded on him, but suddenly she came to an abrupt halt and turned to face him for the first time since he had introduced himself.

"You can start on the pumpkins with Reese."

Kurt blinked, "Who?"

"Reese, Reese Henley!" Darcy looked at Kurt in exasperation, "Do I need to go through names again?"

"No, no; I just misheard you the first time." Kurt smiled quickly.

"Good," With that, Darcy turned away from Kurt and disappeared through a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY.

Kurt blinked after her helplessly before turning to look at the few people at the front of the store. He walked uncertainly over to a girl threading beads onto a length of fishing line, "Reese?"

She glared at Kurt and answered in a voice so nasal, Kurt fought the urge to cringe, "I'm  _Alina_."

"I'm Reese," A voice—much deeper than Kurt had expected—spoke behind him.

He turned and couldn't help it when his eyebrows shot up. The person in front of him was tall with short, thick brown hair and eyes that immediately made Kurt think of Blaine, "You're a boy."

Kurt blushed the second the words were out of his mouth, but the boy only grinned, "So are you."

"Sorry," Kurt blushed even redder, "She said Reese, so I was sort of expecting a girl."

"Reese is a guy name, too, ya know," Reese looked Kurt over, "It's your first day?"

Kurt sighed, "Is it that obvious?"

"Honestly, yes," Reese motioned a hand for Kurt to follow when he started walking, "But it helps that I've been watching you since you came in and I saw Darcy show you around. Did you get anything out of your orientation?"

"That I'm supposed to be working with you on pumpkins?" Kurt smiled weakly.

"That's more than I understood my first day; you're off to a good start," Reese sat down on the edge of the front window display. He held up a box of copper and silver colored flat-topped pins, "We're putting these in the pumpkins."

Kurt stared at the box cynically, "Seriously?"

Reese laughed and held up a finished pumpkin; the top bedazzled in copper pins, "Darcy's crazy, but she's got good vision, just go with it."

Kurt nodded and settled into the space beside Reese to start working.

Reese picked up a half-finished white gourd and settled it on his lap, "So, Kurt, where'd you go to school?"

Kurt blushed, "I didn't, technically. I'm taking a couple classes at Ohio State when I'm not working here, but I'm not a full time student."

Reese looked up from his work, "But you have to be some sort of graduated design major to get this job."

Kurt shrugged, "My boyfriend's dad pulled some strings for me."

"Boyfriend?" Reese echoed.

Kurt looked up at him and smiled dryly, "If you tell me you honestly thought I was straight, you'll be one of three people who have ever actually believed that."

"No, I figured, but, sometimes I hope for something to be true and I end up making myself believe it." Reese chuckled and shrugged, his eyes back on his work.

Kurt pressed a pin into the pumpkin on his lap and glanced back at Reese,  _hoped?_ "Where'd you go to school?"

"The New School in New York."

Kurt perked up, "I was going to move to New York this year. Did you like it?"

"I loved it," Reese sighed, "No offense, but if you had plans for the city, what are you still doing here?"

"My boyfriend was supposed to be coming, too, but he got sick so I stayed here with him until—ouch!" Kurt stuck his finger in his mouth when a pin suddenly bit into it.

"You're gonna wanna watch your fingers." Reese patted Kurt on the shoulder sympathetically.

"Thanks for the warning," Kurt eyed his injured finger for a moment before settling back into his project, "Why'd you come back to Ohio?"

"I—"

Darcy suddenly appeared in front of them in whirl of color. She glanced down at the pumpkin in Kurt's hands and pulled it from his grasp, "You used the silver, gold,  _and_ the bronze?"

Kurt nodded, "I thought it gave it a little extra flair."

Darcy turned the pumpkin around in her hands, "Make seven more like it."

Kurt flinched when she dropped the pumpkin back down into his lap, "Sure."

"Keep up the good work!"

Kurt watched her go in mild amazement, "I have never seen so many colors on one human being."

"You're lucky she liked your thing; she can get pretty nasty if you don't do things her way." Reese admired Kurt's work before turning back to his own.

Kurt hid a self-satisfied smirk by turning to pick up a white gourd from the stack behind him, "Sorry, what were you saying before?"

"Cost of living's steep out there. I came home for this internship and then I'm headed back," Reese motioned a hand toward Kurt, "If you're thinking you want to go into design, the New School's the place to be."

"I'm trying to go more down the fashion route." Kurt shrugged; he had no desire to discuss the dropped internship, but, luckily, Reese didn't ask.

"New School has that, too," Reese looked Kurt over again with a slow smile, "With a good degree and looks like yours, I'm sure you could make some good connections quick."

Kurt looked up at Reese hopefully, "You think?"

"I don't think, I  _know_ ," Reese held up his second finished project for them both to admire, "And trust me, my instincts are good. Things will be hard when you first start out, but you can get to the point you want to be at; you'll just have to be a bit patient at first."

 

* * *

"You're going to have to be a bit patient with some of the people here, Blaine," John spoke carefully. Despite his eyes being focused on the glowing numbers above the elevator doors, Blaine could feel John's gaze on him, "They know you're sick and they haven't seen you in a long time so they might get a little…. sentimental."

 

Blaine nodded. He had been to his father's office before. When he was five—a particularly busy year for John, Blaine's favorite part of his week was going to work with his father every other Saturday. He insisted upon wearing his only suit even though the shoes hurt his feet. He filled his days playing in empty conference rooms and being spoiled by the secretaries. He'd been the darling of the entire floor and people were constantly watching for him to come scuttling by their offices so they could provide him with a piece of candy or jokingly ask him to deliver a note to someone else on the floor. For five-year-old Blaine, those Saturdays had been glorious.

The second Blaine stepped off the elevator and followed his father past the long row of cubicles, all eyes were once again on him, but this time it was not affection in the constant glances and smiles. It was pity.

Blaine touched a hand self-consciously to the back of his head and wished he had had the good sense to bring a hat. But this wasn't him, no; Blaine didn't do self-conscious. _Act confident and you'll be confident._ Blaine straightened up a little and tried to meet a few of the gazes directed toward him with smiles.

"John, I'm so glad you're finally in, I just dropped those forms from the—Blaine!" Blaine resisted the urge to step behind his father the way he might have when he was small. He didn't recognize the woman directing her wet, sad gaze at him, and he wanted nothing to do with her equally sad smile, "I'm Caryn Daugherty, you used to come into my office and ask to play with the Rubik's Cube I kept on my desk, do you remember?"

Blaine smiled, "Sorry, I don't."

"Oh, dear, that's okay," Caryn reached out and squeezed Blaine's arm sympathetically.

 _She thinks it's because of the cancer._ Blaine realized with a pang. He contemplated correcting her, but then suddenly he was enveloped in a stiff hug. He stood perfectly still underneath the embrace, his eyes flitting to his father's helplessly.

"Oh, Blaine, sweetheart, this must be so hard for you."

Blaine lifted a hand and patted the woman on the back awkwardly, "I'm doing fine. I'm… staying positive."

Blaine could practically hear Kurt laughing at the cliché. He made a mental note to make an actual note to tell Kurt about the entire awkward exchange when he got home.

Caryn finally released him, her eyes looking even wetter as she looked him over, "Don't worry, everything happens for a reason, okay?"

"Uh," Blaine blinked; nodded dumbly, "okay."

John finally stepped in to rescue him. He clapped a hand on Blaine's shoulder and smiled at Caryn, "Blaine's in to help Marie with some filing today."

Blaine tuned out the rest of the conversation for fear of saying something he shouldn't in sudden irritation. He stared down at his shoes until he felt John pressing a hand into the small of his back. He blinked up at Caryn who was looking at him with The Smile again. Blaine forced a pleasant smile of his own, "Nice seeing you."

"Oh, you too, sweetie, if you need anything at all, my office is right here," Caryn pointed to the door they were standing beside, "Thirteen seventeen, okay?"

"Thanks." Blaine nodded and moved forward quickly, fearful of Caryn going in for another hug.

On and on the routine went. John's colleagues approached Blaine with overly sympathetic smiles, a reminder of who they were, and some piece of advice or anecdote about someone they knew who had been sick, too. Blaine answered them with his own routine: a polite smile, an awkward pat on the back for the ones that hugged him, and an assurance that he was 'feeling well and staying positive'.

When John ushered Blaine into his office, Blaine collapsed in one of the chairs, "I'm already exhausted."

John smiled apologetically, "I'm sorry, Blaine, but they mean well. They all worry about you, you know."

"Next time they want to show their support, they can leave stories about their Great Aunt Mildred's skin cancer and their friend of a friend's Hodgkin's out of it." Blaine rubbed his eyes, "And their hugs; they can skip those, too."

"Blaine," His father reprimanded gently.

"What?" Blaine snapped.

John sighed, "Let's just get you set up to work, shall we?"

Blaine sat up straighter in his chair, "Sure. What do you have for me?"

John hoisted a box of papers off of the floor and onto his desk, "There's three boxes of these. They all need to be alphabetized and put into their files. Some of them might not have files, so you'll need to make them folders."

Blaine looked at the box with disdain, "Sounds like fun."

John put the box back down on the ground and pushed the other two out beside it, "Marie cleared a desk for you to work at by hers—"

Blaine looked toward the door miserably, "You're going to make me go back out there?"

John studied Blaine's face for a moment, "I think you've run into just about everyone who might have something to say to you; a lot of the secretaries and younger workers wouldn't know you."

Blaine looked down at his lap. He ran his tongue over the sore in his mouth for what had to have been the fifteenth time that day; it stung and he knew he should let it be, but he pressed his tongue into it again anyway. He didn't want to go sit out in the maze of cubicles; he didn't want people to pass his desk just so they could get a quick look at John Anderson's sick son. Most of all, he didn't want anymore of those pitying smiles.

"If you'd prefer, you can work in here with me."

Blaine looked up in surprise. His father looked back at him in quiet understanding, "Would that be okay?"

"You'll have to work from the floor and there's going to be days when I'll need you to work at your desk if I have smaller meetings in here, but today it shouldn't be a problem."

Blaine pushed himself out of his chair and dragged one of the boxes to the far corner of the office. He settled himself on the floor and smiled gratefully at his father before turning his attention to the box.

John stood quietly watching Blaine for a long minute, "I need to get to my meeting; you okay in here for a bit?"

Blaine waved a hand toward the door, "I'll be fine."

John hesitated before pulling out a steno pad from a drawer, "I'm writing down the room number and my cell phone number. Marie—you remember my secretary, right? She's the third cubicle to the right of my door—I'll write that down, too. If you need anything, you can ask her, or you can come find me."

"Unless you're planning on leaving me here for a few days, I think I'll be fine, Dad," Blaine glanced up from the stack of papers he'd pulled out of the box at his side, "And I have your number in my contacts."

John nodded, but tapped a finger on the pad of paper, "Well, just in case—it's here, okay?"

"Okay." Blaine mumbled. He didn't look back up until he heard the door click shut quietly. He watched through the window beside the door as his father walked away, but not before pausing in front of Marie's desk to say something and glance back toward his office.

"Typical." Blaine muttered to himself. He hated that his parents didn't trust him to be alone for more than a few hours. He hated that a stupid cold and a little fever were treated like a sure sign of death. And now he hated that stupid fucking sheet of paper sitting on his father's desk. He glanced toward the window beside the door again before pushing himself up and moving over to the desk. He pulled the top sheet of paper off, crumpled it into a ball, and dropped it into the trashcan before settling back down to work.

The task should have been monotonous. Something that would have once been busy work that allowed him to keep his hands occupied while his mind wandered to other places. Instead, he found himself needing to focus hard; recite the first two letters of a last name over and over as he scanned his piles to find where to put it and he still ended up having to double check. And of course there was the issue of his left hand messing up everything; he made an effort to focus on using the right one, but there were only so many directions he could let his mind go.

When he reached absently to collect the finished stack of A's, the pile fell from his hand and fanned out across the floor like fallen leaves.

"Fuck!" Blaine lashed out at the M's with a foot and sent it careening into the stack of J's and L's. He stared moodily at the mess of papers splayed out around him.

The sound of the handle turning on the door moved his mood quickly from furious to humiliated. He shifted until he was sitting back on his heels and scrambled to straighten up some of the mess as his father stepped through the door.

John surveyed the disarray of papers scattered across the floor in silence, "Everything alright?"

"No." Blaine snapped. He glared hard at a termination form for someone named Missy Albright and decided he hated her.

John knelt down and reached out to straighten the pile of F's that had somehow become askew.

"I don't need help!" Blaine glowered at him.

John retracted his hand and straightened up. He settled into his desk chair wordlessly.

Blaine started the slow process of shuffling the scattered papers into some semblance of a pile to reorder. His mood remained stormy, but he looked up in surprise when quiet music suddenly filled the office.

John fiddled with the dial on a stereo for a moment before meeting Blaine's eyes, "It's strange having you in here and not hearing you sing—you never stopped when you were a little boy."

Blaine regarded his father before speaking carefully, "If I'm remembering right, I drove you crazy because I never knew words, so I'd just repeat the ones I did know—you told me to hum."

John chuckled, "And you never stopped. You could listen to a song once and hum the entire thing."

Blaine turned his gaze back to the stack of papers in front of him, his anger melting away to quiet frustration, "…I can't."

"Can't hum?" John raised an eyebrow, "I heard you singing yesterday."

"No, I can sing and hum and whatever; just not while I'm trying to do this stuff, too," Blaine looked up at his father and felt suddenly ashamed for the quickly lengthening list of mistakes he'd made over the course of only one morning, "I can't multitask well. I lose track of things."

John stared back at Blaine as though trying to make up his mind about something. He glanced down at the papers still scattered across the floor, "You need a break. Lets go get lunch."

 

* * *

"You need a break. Lets go get lunch." Reese pulled the paintbrush Kurt was using out from between his fingers.

 

Kurt smiled—it was true, he did need a break. He was tired and nearly cross-eyed from focusing on getting the smallest details right in everything he did or else face Darcy's wrath, "I actually have plans to meet up with my dad for lunch today; sorry."

Reese looked disappointed, but he quickly flashed Kurt another winning smile, "That's alright; rain check?"

"Sure," Kurt glanced around the store, but he couldn't spy the familiar nearly white glow of Darcy's hair anywhere, "Do we need to check in first or something?"

"Find Darcy and let her know this is when you want to do your lunch break from now on. I'll see ya this afternoon." Reese clapped Kurt on the shoulder and flashed him a smile before disappearing out the front door.

Kurt found Darcy perched on a ladder in the front window display. He peered up at her and cleared his throat awkwardly, "Excuse me, Miss Johnson?"

Darcy didn't look away from the strand of beads she was hanging, "What is it now?"

"I was going to take my lunch break—I'm meeting someone for lunch and—"

"Go then; be back in thirty minutes and make sure you bring newspaper."

Kurt frowned, "Newspaper?"

"Yes, the newspaper I told you you'd have to pick up," Darcy finally looked down at him; clearly irritated, "We discussed this during your orientation, Kurt."

"Oh! Right!" Kurt bobbed his head up and down, "What I meant to ask is if you had a preference for…for… which paper I got?"

Darcy frowned, "Why would that matter?"

"I don't know; I thought maybe you just wanted the  _New York Times_  maybe or just the comics sections or something like that; just wanted to make sure." Kurt stepped back from the ladder and edged toward the door.

Alina rolled her eyes and snorted.

Kurt made a mental note to move her immediately to his Bad List.

Darcy smiled slightly, "Your attention to detail is good; I like that. You said you're meeting someone for lunch?"

Kurt nodded.

"I'm feeling generous today. You can have three extra minutes for your lunch break," Darcy picked up another strand of beads and turned it between her fingers; assessing Alina's work with pursed lips.

"Thank you, Miss Johnson," Kurt directed a smug smirk at Alina.

Darcy turned back toward the ladder, "Your time starts now, Mr. Hummel, I suggest you get going if you plan on getting my papers back here on time."

Without another word, Kurt rushed out the door. He was set to meet his father no later than one at a restaurant just off campus, but he couldn't stop himself from pulling over beside every free newspaper dispenser he passed and tucking a stack of the papers in his backseat. By the time he arrived at the restaurant he was seventeen minutes late for when he'd promised to meet Burt, eleven minutes into his thirty-three minute lunch break and completely out of breath. He collapsed into the chair across from his father nearly panting, "Sorry I'm late; I had to finish painting for this light bulb project I was doing and then I had to talk to my boss and my car was parallel parked and I couldn't get out of the space and I had to pick up every free newspaper I could find because Darcy wants papers and I don't even know how many and—"

Burt leaned his elbows on the table and pushed a glass of water toward Kurt, "Take a breath, kid; you're gonna give yourself a heart attack if you don't settle down."

Kurt took a drink from the offered cup of water before appraising his father, "I, for one, don't have a history of heart problems. Have you been eating well without me there to hover?"

"I'm a full grown man, Kurt, I think I can—" Burt glanced at Kurt's dubious expression and let out a huff, "Yes, I'm eating well."

Kurt nodded his satisfaction before looking down at his menu.

"How about you; you taking good care of yourself?"

"Of course." Kurt closed his menu and motioned a hand at his face, "Look at me; is that even a question?"

Burt snorted, "That Karofsky kid treating you okay?"

"Dad, I think you can move past calling him the Karofsky Kid and move on to David, and, yes, he's very civil. The table manners that it took me two years to teach Finn have been mastered by Dave in two months."

"Hn," Burt flagged down their waitress before turning his gaze back to Kurt, "Isn't this the first day of that job of yours? They wearing you out already?"

"My boss just has high expectations; it would have been the same in New York with the internship I'm sure," Kurt shrugged, "It's challenging, but I like it, I think."

They paused in their conversation to order with a promise of a good tip from Burt directed at the waitress if she could get their food out fast.

"Well I'm glad to hear you're being so positive about it," Burt turned his attention back to Kurt once the waitress had gone, "No bitter feelings about New York?"

Kurt stirred his straw in his glass slowly, "I'd rather be there, but maybe the year will be good for me… I was talking to one of the other interns today about maybe trying to get a degree in fashion instead of just diving into the internships full on."

"You do the research and give me the pitch and we'll see what we can make happen," Burt smiled, "You been keeping an eye on your brother? I'm headed over to check on him and Puck after our lunch; anything I should know?"

Kurt shrugged, "I see them around campus sometimes, but I'm sort of out of their social loop. I never know who or what they're talking about. Except when Finn talks about Rachel, which is admittedly a lot."

Burt studied Kurt's face, "Is that gettin' you down?"

"Finn talking about Rachel?" Kurt rolled his eyes, "I'd have a bigger problem if he wasn't talking about her—him and Puck want to go out to New York to visit her and Quinn sometime soon."

"I meant them having a social thing you feel like you're not a part of."

"Yes and no," Kurt glanced back up at his father, "I'm busy so it's not like I'm reduced to sitting around and wallowing over the fact that I don't hang out with them."

"But?"

"… But it's strange seeing them move on so fast," Kurt sat back in his chair, "Finn's still an idiot and Puck is still a pig, but somehow it seems like they're still… growing or evolving or something."

Burt nodded, "They're in a new part of their lives; they're still kids, so they're bound to do some stupid stuff, but they're taking on new responsibilities…You gonna go on that New York trip with them?"

Kurt shrugged, "I don't know. I'm scheduled to work most of the weekend and I have Blaine Friday nights and Saturday mornings, so it would take a lot of schedule rearranging."

Their waitress returned with their orders and promises to bring drink refills when she returned again.

Burt took a bite of his sandwich, but his gaze remained on Kurt.

Kurt met his father's gaze and paused with a bite of his salad halfway up to his mouth, "What?"

Burt swallowed his food and took a drink from his cup before settling Kurt with a look, "Don't you forget you're still a kid, too. You taking some time to have fun?"

Kurt rolled his eyes, "I see Blaine every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, and I Skype with Rachel every other night."

Burt sat back and fished his wallet out of his pocket. He pushed a folded fifty across the table, "Go see a movie or something sometime soon, alright?"

Kurt looked at the money between them in surprise, "Dad, you don't have to give me money to go to a movie… and a movie won't cost me fifty dollars."

"Consider this another new responsibility for you," Burt looked at Kurt seriously, "We had this talk at the beginning of the summer: be smart, but don't forget to have some fun. I expect a report by next week on what you do with that fifty."

Kurt took the money and folded it neatly into his pocket, "Thanks, Dad."

Burt smiled and motioned his sandwich at Kurt, "And I also expect a couple more phone calls. Carol misses talking to you."

"And you don't?" Kurt raised an eyebrow but smiled.

"Of course I do," Burt smiled faintly, "It's funny—I've got Carol around, but not having you in the house just makes it seem empty. You and me have always been a team."

Kurt reached across the table and squeezed Burt's hand, "We still are."

"Good to hear it, kid," Burt leaned back in his chair and tried to get the waitresses attention yet again, "Now lets get that check before you end up being late getting back to work."

 

* * *

"You're going to be late getting back to the office." Blaine ran a thumb over the white linen of the napkin on his lap, "I'd have been okay with just getting something from one of those food carts outside your office or something."

 

"That's the good thing about being one of the guys in charge, sport; you make a lot of your own hours," John handed his menu back to their waitress with a smile, "And your mother and I never took you out for a graduation dinner, so consider this a partial make up for it."

"Thank you," Blaine smiled a little. He picked up his glass of water from the table and glanced around the restaurant.

"Have we brought you here before?" John looked around, too, "I know your mother and I have been here a few times, but did we bring you here after your confirmation?"

Blaine shook his head; his eyes resting on a table tucked away in a corner, "No, but I've been here before. I took Kurt on a date here last summer."

John looked momentarily uncomfortable, but the moment passed and he managed a smile, "I'm sure he was impressed."

Blaine laughed quietly, "He has a thing for tuna tartare so he was a little disappointed he couldn't find it on the menu."

"There's a new seafood place a few blocks down from here; I'm sure they'd have it there." John glanced down at his phone before setting it down on the table beside his glass.

Blaine met his father's eyes again, "I haven't missed that you're trying harder to accept me and him, and I appreciate it… a lot more than you know."

Blaine couldn't help but feel a small spark of pride when his father's expression turned from awkward to grateful at his words. John cleared his throat, though, and the moment passed. He reached into his pocket and slid something across the table to Blaine, "Marie asked me to give these to you; she's had them in her desk for years."

Blaine picked up one of the business cards and smiled. On each one, a little logo of his father's company was embossed on the top over Blaine's name in neat, black font, "You gave these to me for Christmas when I was five."

John chuckled, "You passed them out to everyone in our office but when they offered you theirs, you only ever wanted the customized floral ones from the secretaries."

"And yours," Blaine shuffled through the pile of papers, smiling absently at the collection of cards from his father's coworkers under the stack of his own. He held up his father's card, "I think I had about fifty of them."

"I've had a promotion or two since then, I'll have to give you my new card," John smiled at their waitress when she returned to put plates of food down in front of them before looking back at Blaine, "I'll probably be getting a new one from you in a few year, too."

Blaine's smile slipped just a little, "I've been thinking about that a bit, Dad, and… I don't think I want to do law… or business."

John took a bite of his food and chewed slowly while he studied Blaine. He swallowed and put his fork down, "There's a lot of other fields out there you could look into, I suppose… computer science, engineering, medicine—"

"Acting."

John's expression turned tired, "Blaine, you can't major in acting."

"Last time I checked it's listed as a major just like business and law." Blaine prodded his food with his fork and didn't look up at his father.

John let out a long sigh, "You need to be practical, Blaine. Acting is a wonderful hobby, but you need to choose something financially lucrative so you can support yourself."

"It's what I love," Blaine glanced up at his father, "You taught me to be passionate about things, so why wouldn't I commit myself to something I'm passionate about?"

"Blaine, you go to college to get a job, not play around for four years." John's voice was even, but it held the sharp underlying warning that it was time for Blaine to stop arguing, "You don't have to major in business or law, but—"

"But I have to choose something on your list of pre-approved options." Blaine snapped.

John fell mute and turned his attention down to his plate.

They ate in silence and Blaine felt a small sliver of guilt. His father was trying. His father took him out for a nice lunch and gave him a way to make a little money and he was ruining it with a trivial fight. He glanced up at John, "Sorry. It's not… it doesn't matter. I'm sorry I started a fight."

John looked up at him again, but instead of looking placated by the apology, he looked concerned, "It doesn't matter?"

Blaine shrugged; he just wanted the argument to be over and, to be honest, maybe it didn't matter. He looked back down at his plate and took a bite of his chicken. It tasted bland and dry against his tongue, but he swallowed it down anyway.

John was silent for another long minute, "Blaine, there's something we need to talk about."

Blaine looked up from his food warily, "What?"

John hesitated for a moment. He leaned forward toward Blaine, a frown creasing his features and making him look suddenly much older, "I know how you feel about your mother and I going through anything in your room…"

 _Oh God, the condoms…or the weed…or…_ Blaine tried to suppress a hot blush he could already feel burning in his cheeks, "But you did anyway."

"Not technically," John didn't look disgusted or angry… he looked…Blaine searched his father's face until he figured it out. He looked worried. Really worried.

"Then what?" Blaine sat back impatiently; suddenly restless.

"Your mother borrowed your laptop."

 _Porn?_ Blaine decided no, she hadn't found porn. Porn wouldn't require a conversation, and it definitely wouldn't require that look on his father's face, "So?"

"She used Google and… she saw your search history," John was still leaned close; his eyes searching Blaine's, "Why are you looking up stuff about embalming people, Blaine?"

Blaine felt the blood leave his face just as fast as it had rushed to it a moment earlier. He tried to think fast and managed to force a feeble smile, "I'm considering becoming a mortician if the acting thing doesn't work out."

"Blaine." John didn't smile.

Blaine stared down at his hands. What was he supposed to say? Was he supposed to explain the creeping fears and shadowy thoughts that crossed his mind as he lay in bed at night after a nightmare? Tell his father about suffocating in a closed casket and the smell of decaying flesh that stuck in his nose longer and longer after every bad dream? No, none of those things… but there was something he wanted to say. He closed his fingers into fists; spread them back out over the tablecloth. He looked up and met John's eyes, "If something happens, I want to be cremated."

John's face paled, "Blaine, that's not something you have to—"

"If something happens," Blaine repeated; his voice a little louder; a little steadier, "I don't want to be stuffed full of chemicals and propped up in a casket."

John hesitated for only a minute before reaching out across the table and resting a hand over Blaine's steadier one, "Blaine, you're not going to die."

Blaine pulled his hand away and closed his eyes; willed himself not to yell. He opened his eyes, but even worse than feeling like he was about to scream, was the feeling that he might cry, "Dad, please, just—that's what I want."

John sat back in his chair and stared at Blaine; his expression anxious and tired; so incredibly tired.

The waitress came and removed their plates with a quiet murmur that she'd bring the check.

"…Have you looked into schools with good acting programs?"

Blaine blinked; had he missed something?

John sat up straighter; busied himself flipping through the cards in his wallet before pulling one out, "You're going to have to research programs if that's what you want to do next year."

That was it: next year. A future. His father wanted him to stay focused on there being a next year; a life to plan for. Blaine sighed; he'd kept his research a secret for a reason. His parents weren't ready to hear that sort of thing; they didn't want to think about  _that_ possibility. Blaine met his father's eyes, "I'll ask Rachel if she knows of anywhere good. She's in New York now."

John nodded a little too enthusiastically, "Maybe a dual degree—acting and…and…. is production a major?"

"I don't know," Blaine shrugged.

"A lot of options; a lot of things to think about," John nodded again, "I'm going to be out of town for a few days starting Thursday so we won't need you in the office then; maybe you and your friends could go to the library and see if there are any books on majors for actors; if you can't find anything, you can take my credit card and try a bookstore—"

"Dad?"

John looked at Blaine expectantly; desperately.

"I'll do all that, but… could we not talk about it right now?" Blaine looked back at the table he and Kurt had shared the previous summer, "I'm getting a headache."

 

* * *

"Oh my God, I have the worst headache." Kurt was talking as soon as he was through the door. He looked over at Bocelli's cage on the kitchen table, "You are so lucky you can sing and look pretty for a living without needing to pay rent."

 

Lucky for Kurt—and the steadily increasing tension in his head—Darcy had sent the interns home early, each with a stack of newspapers; and verbal instructions that Reese and Kurt had puzzled out to be that they had to cut the paper into strips and paint them the colors Darcy thrust into their arms before they could leave. He settled his supplies on the table and was about to move to his bedroom when something hanging over the arm of the couch caught his eye.

He stepped back closer to it, sure that he was seeing things, but no; it was exactly what he had thought it was. A Dalton blazer.

He picked it up and ran a finger over the red piping. The thick fabric and slight weight were familiar in his hands, as were the faint smell of cologne and smoke that greeted his nose as he turned the blazer over in his hands. He glanced back at the door, but there were only two pairs of shoes lined up beside the rug.

Kurt scrambled over to David's room and knocked on the door, "Excuse me, Mr. Karofsky, but you have some explaining to do and don't you dare try to den—"

David opened the door and blinked sleepily at Kurt, "I thought you weren't going to be home until six."

"My boss turned us loose early, and I believe I have a few questions I need to ask you about your day, too," Kurt shook out the blazer and held it in front of David, "Any particular reason this is here?"

Kurt had expected furious blushing; a stuttered babbling of excuses and a little anger to mask the embarrassment. Instead, David just blinked at the blazer until recognition seemed to dawn. His face fell, "I tried to text you this afternoon, but I didn't get a hold of you."

Kurt's smile slipped, "I haven't checked my phone at all today. Is everything okay?"

David leaned against his doorframe and rubbed his eyes, "I don't know."

Kurt frowned and moved to sit down on the couch.

David followed and took a seat on the other couch. He slouched down until his elbows rested on his knees, "Remember this morning how we talked about me telling more people about…about me being gay?"

Kurt nodded, "Yeah."

"Well, I guess it kind of got me to thinking—I mean I was thinking about it before—but it really got me to thinking, and you said you were gonna get lunch with your dad, and… I decided to see if my dad would go to lunch with me, too."

Kurt frowned; he had a feeling about where this conversation was going, "Okay…."

"I asked him to come over here so people wouldn't be around and listening and shit," David shifted almost uncomfortably.

Kurt sat up straighter; suddenly anxious, "You wanted to come out to him."

David nodded, but he was quiet; his eyes distant.

Kurt shifted forward a little on the couch, "Did you do it?"

David nodded.

"How'd he take it?" Kurt asked softly; fearful of the sadness etched into David's face.

"He… he said he still loved me, but he needed—" David cleared his throat, "He needed some time to adjust to it and stuff… and then he left."

Kurt was quiet.

"I… I called you because I was freaked out and I didn't know if what he did was normal and then you didn't answer, so I called Trip." David's eyes drifted toward the blazer folded on the couch beside Kurt.

"David, if he was an ass about anything, don't listen to him, he just—"

"He wasn't," David shook his head.

"Oh," Kurt tried to read more in David's face, but couldn't find anything, "Have you heard from your dad?"

David stared down at his feet, "No… Trip came over and then I must have fallen asleep."

Kurt couldn't help himself; he glanced at the blazer at his side, "So Trip came over, told you not to worry about things with your dad and then…. left?"

"He must have left while I was asleep." David evaded Kurt's gaze.

"You fell asleep mid-conversation?" Kurt raised an eyebrow.

"Sort of." David mumbled.

"In your bedroom."

"Yes."

"You brought Trip Morgan in your bedroom for a conversation that you fell asleep in the middle of."

"We made out, okay?" David snapped; his cheeks suddenly red.

"And?"

"What do you mean and?" David snapped.

"It was good? Bad? Is this the first guy you've made out with? Who initiated it?"

"Jesus, Hummel," David looked at Kurt in alarm, "I came out to my fucking dad today and he could barely look at me, can we focus on that?"

"Right; sorry," Kurt smoothed his hands over his lap, "How are you feeling? Are you glad you did it?"

"I don't know," David sank back into the couch, "Did you have to tell your dad?"

Kurt snorted, "Apparently not, but I did anyway."

David looked up from his knees, "How'd he take it?"

"He told me he wasn't in love with the idea, but he loved me regardless," Kurt smiled absently to himself.

"What about Blaine?"

"Blaine had a harder time of it," Kurt met David's gaze and sighed, "Look, David, it takes time; it takes work—on both of your parts—but being true to who you are… it's worth it; I promise."

David nodded, "I… I think I can do that."

"Good," Kurt stood and stretched, "I need to go call Blaine, but if you want to talk or something you know where I live."

David smiled, "Sure… and Kurt?"

Kurt turned in his doorway and looked expectantly at David.

"I… thank you," David glanced down at the floor and then back up at Kurt, "For everything, for… humoring me, I guess."

 

* * *

"Thanks for humoring me today and coming into the office, sport," John loosened his tie as he and Blaine made their way into the house.

 

Blaine smiled wearily, "You paid me, so I'd hardly call it just humoring you."

John chuckled, "I still appreciate you coming in."

"Thanks for bringing me… and for lunch."

John looked away from Blaine's face and turned his attention to pulling off his shoes.

"Oh, you're home early! What a nice surprise," Upon seeing them, Elizabeth immediately crossed the room to feel Blaine's forehead, "Honey, you look exhausted; do you feel alright?"

"I'm fine, Mom; really. I was just getting too accustomed to lying around all day," Blaine hung his jacket in the closet and glanced over his shoulder at her, "How was your day free of babysitting?"

"Honey, I don't babysit you," Elizabeth frowned, "And if I'm being honest, folding laundry and watching  _You've Got Mail_  without your running commentary inserted every three lines makes it seem like it drags on much longer than a couple of hours."

Blaine smiled and stooped to pick up his shoes, "Try watching with Kurt. He can make any Meg Ryan movie fly by."

Elizabeth laughed quietly, but then she was looking between John and Blaine searchingly, "You two had a nice day?"

John nodded, "Blaine did a fine job."

"I sorted and filed about fifty of three million pieces of paper." Blaine rolled his eyes.

"It was only your first day; you'll get the hang of it," Elizabeth smiled warmly and squeezed Blaine's hand gently, "It'll come in handy when you're some hot shot lawyer someday; you won't even need to hire an assistant because you'll know how to do all the filing yourself."

John cleared his throat awkwardly, "Blaine and I discussed him looking into the entertainment industry as a potential career path."

Elizabeth looked at John in genuine surprise, "Is that so?"

John nodded and looked back toward Blaine, "Blaine's going to start doing some research on good schools for that sort of thing."

Blaine didn't want to have this conversation again; he didn't want to watch the secondary silent conversation going on between his parents. He tucked his shoes under his arm and forced a yawn for show, "I'm pretty tired. I think I'm going to go upstairs and lie down."

Elizabeth kissed him on the cheek, "I'll call you down for dinner. Do you need anything now?"

"No, I'm fine. I'll let you know if I think of something though, I promise." Blaine jogged up the stairs and listened to the quiet murmur of conspiratorial whispers coming from downstairs until he closed his door and shut them out.

Normally, he'd take the time and care to put his shoes back in their proper box, but instead, he dropped them by the door and collapsed face down on his bed; relieved to feel the soft spring of his mattress beneath him. Even more comforting was the sound of his ringtone and Kurt's name on his Caller ID barely a minute later.

Blaine rolled onto his back and put his phone to his ear, "Are you magic?"

Kurt laughed on his side of the line, "A little, but I lose control of it sometimes; have I unwittingly cast a spell on you?"

"All kinds of them all the time," Blaine smiled up at his ceiling fan, "But today specifically, you're guilty of calling me just when I was thinking about you."

"That's only impressive if you don't think about me very often, and I caught you in one of the rare moments I pop into your head."

"Maybe it's not magic then," Blaine closed his eyes; the weariness of his day already melting from his bones.

"Maybe not," Kurt agreed, "How was your day? Have you given up on  _Cake Boss_ or are you just no longer sending me grainy pictures of your television screen when they make things you deem amazing?"

"Neither; I went into my dad's office and did some filing." Blaine rolled onto his stomach and shifted his phone to his other ear.

"You did? You didn't tell me you were going to do that today," Blaine could hear the quiet rustling of fabric on Kurt's side of the line, "Tell me about it."

Blaine shook his head even though he was well aware that Kurt couldn't see him, "It's boring, but it pays. Tell me about your job—should I be watching for window displays by Kurt Hummel?"

"No, no; but if anyone can make it as a pumpkin bedazzler, it's going to be me," Kurt laughed quietly, "But we were talking about you; tell me more about your day."

Blaine sighed into the receiver and he was sure the sound was crackling in the speaker against Kurt's ear on his side of the line. He suddenly desperately wanted to be with Kurt. He wanted to lay close and feel the warmth of his body and smell the familiar, cool smell of him and actually breath the same air as him, "I'm so glad you stayed."

Kurt was quiet for a moment, but when he spoke, Blaine could hear the smile in his voice, "Are you thinking about how this is the only way we could talk to each other if I was in the city and you were here?"

"Yeah," Blaine swallowed; suddenly irrationally choked up.

"Blaine, are you okay?" Kurt's voice was soft; concerned, "Do you need me to come over?"

"I—no, it's okay," Blaine cleared his throat, "It's… a tumor thing or something; my emotions are all out of sync."

"They are?"

Blaine smiled a little, "I don't know; I kind of just made the tumor thing up. But it's either that or I'm getting my period."

"I think this is the only time I will ever hope something with you is cancer related," Kurt laughed, "Now tell me more about work. Was it okay? Be honest."

"Honestly?" Blaine wiped at his eyes, ' _…it sucked. I screwed things up, I got pity smiles and I made a mess of the papers I was supposed to be putting away and I yelled at a woman I've never met in my life.'_ was what he wanted to say, but, at the same time, he didn't want to say any of those things, "It was fine."

"Blaine," Blaine could practically see Kurt rolling his eyes, "Details are your friends; elaborate."

"I…" Blaine traced the perimeter of the sore in his mouth with the tip of his tongue and wondered if he was just being paranoid or if it had actually gotten bigger. He finally let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding in, "It was long."

There was a momentary silence, "Are you sure you don't want me to come over?"

"Yeah; I'm okay… I just…can you talk for a while? I just want to listen to your voice," Blaine's eyes drifted to the picture of him and Kurt on his nightstand, "Please?"

Kurt was quiet again, "Okay… but you have to promise you'll stop bothering that spot in your mouth while you're listening. Don't deny you've been doing it; I  _know_ you."

"Promise," Blaine smiled.

"Good," Kurt took in a breath, "So you know how I started work today? My boss is _insane._ I don't know if I hate her, admire her, or just think she should be institutionalized. She talks faster than I can and with the way she dresses and walks around she looks like a rainbow on a rampage—"

"Kurt?" Blaine interrupted quietly.

"Yeah?"

"What're you doing right now?"

"If this is an implication you changed your mind and you want me to come visit, then I'm currently grabbing my car keys and heading for the door."

"No, it's not that," Blaine traced a finger over the edge of his pillowcase, "I just want to have a mental picture."

He could hear Kurt shifting around, "I'm in my room laying on my bed."

"On your stomach or on your back?"

"My back."

Blaine rolled onto his back, too, and stared up at the ceiling, "Okay…keep going; you were talking about your boss."

"She sent me on this mission to get newspapers, but, like I said; she's a little unstable, so I got the hell out of there before asking how many she wanted, and guess how many I got? Actually, don't guess because you'll never get it," Kurt paused for dramatic effect, "ninety two! Ninety-two newspapers! My entire car  _still_ smells like a printing press, so I get back to the store…"

Blaine closed his eyes and listened to the familiar cadence of Kurt's voice and let it sooth him.

Kurt went on and on. He told Blaine about people at the store, about his projects, about the ideas already blossoming in his head for ideas for the displays. He shifted the topic to David's coming out to his dad and Trip coming to visit, but Blaine offered no comments more than a quiet word offered to prove he was still there listening.

Finally, Kurt's tempo wound down; his tone softened, "Blaine?"

"Hmm?"

"Are you sure you're alright?"

"I'm good… I'm better now," Blaine opened his eyes. The light had shifted outside while he had lain listening to Kurt. His ceiling was bathed in dusky orange sun and long blue shadows, "Your voice is like therapy, you know that? Like music."

Kurt laughed quietly, "Your entire presence is like therapy; like when hospitals have those dogs in the blue work vests that you can pet until you feel better, except you're cuter."

Blaine smiled; his eyes following the blue, slatted shadow of his blinds on the ceiling, "Can I ask you something?"

Kurt sighed loudly, "I suppose."

Blaine hesitated, "Have you ever had a reoccurring dream that you wanted to go away?"

"Yes," Kurt was quiet for a moment, "I used to have a dream I was locked in McKinley all alone. The lights would all turn off and I'd get lost and I couldn't get out."

"How'd you get it to go away?"

"Are you having bad dreams, Blaine?" Kurt's voice was soft; sweet.

"Just one."  _Please don't make me tell you about it._ Blaine waited anxiously for Kurt to respond.

"…Do you have your Ipod handy?"

Blaine frowned in confusion but glanced toward his desk, "Yeah…"

"Go put it on your dock and pull up your playlists."

Blaine pushed himself up off of his bed and moved to his desk. He fumbled with his Ipod for a minute and nested the phone between his shoulder and ear, "Okay."

"There should be a playlist that just has a bunch of hearts for a title, do you see it?"

"Yeah… should I turn it on?"

"Yes—make sure it's not on shuffle and then go lay down."

Blaine hit play and returned to his bed, "Now what?"

"Now close your eyes and listen and think about nice things."

Blaine glanced at the clock on his nightstand, "Kurt, it's barely five."

"And you're tired; I can tell. Close your eyes… are they closed?"

"Mhm." Blaine shut his eyes and smiled.

"Are you listening to the music?"

"Mhm… can you hear it?"

"I'm listening to the same playlist here."

"You are?"

"Yes, now go to sleep."

"Where's hanging up the phone in that list of instructions?" Blaine yawned.

"I'll stay on the phone with you until you fall asleep."

"Is that one of the nice things I can think about?"

"Yes, it is. Keep listening to the music."

"I am…" Blaine yawned again, "Kurt?"

"What?"

"Can you sing along?"

"Do you promise you'll sleep if I do?"

"Yes." Blaine pushed back his comforter and climbed underneath.

"Are you thinking nice things?"

"I'm thinking nice things."

"Are your eyes closed?"

"They're closed." Blaine slid lower under his blankets; not caring that he was still in his day clothes or that he could hear the beginning of an argument breaking out somewhere downstairs. He felt his attention slipping; his body relaxing. Even as sleep clouded his thoughts, he listened to Kurt's voice; sweet and familiar through the phone. The sound followed him all the way into his dreams.

_And all along I believed_

_I would find you_

_Time has brought your heart to me_

_I have loved you for a thousand years_

_I love you for a thousand more_

_I have died everyday waiting for you_

_Darling, don't be afraid_

_I have loved you for a thousand years_

_I love you for a thousand more_


	26. Chapter 24, Pt. 1

"You were fine this morning," Kurt whined out to the empty hallway as he stared gloomily at the 'Out of Order' sign hanging on the front of the elevator. He shifted the box in his arms up higher against his chest and rolled his shoulder beneath his too heavy bag as he turned toward the stairs.

Two back-to-back power lectures starting at seven thirty followed by work until six had turned Thursdays into one of Kurt's least favorite days of the week, and now  _this_. He muttered angrily to himself for the entire three flights of stairs—swearing to get their landlord sued for failing to make building repairs; cursing Alina and her ugly shoes and overdone hair for breaking that ceramic pot and causing Darcy to send them all home with massive projects. Mostly he just cursed random profanities under his breath until he stepped out of the stairwell and into the hall of the third floor. He dropped the box of papers down on the ground in front of the door as he pulled his keys out.

He shoved the door open and kicked the box into the apartment ahead of him rather than lifting it again. The lights were on and the smell of food made his stomach turn at the sudden memory of how long it had been since his last meal, "Lets boycott paying rent because of that goddamn elevator!"

Nobody answered.

Kurt stepped over his box and pulled the door closed behind him, "If you ignoring me is your way of saying I'm being dramatic, you're wrong. I just walked three billion stairs with a—Oh! Mr. Karofsky, I didn't realize you were here."

David and his father were seated on one of the couches, both looking at Kurt in mild surprise.

Kurt glanced at David's face—his eyes were red, but when they met Kurt's, he smiled a little, "Long day?"

"Very, very long." Kurt agreed. He slid his bag down off of his arm as he stepped closer to them; his gaze still darting between David and Paul, "I'm sorry, am I intruding on something? I can—"

"No, no, Kurt, you're fine," Paul smiled reassuringly, "I just stopped by to chat with David; I was about to leave when you came in."

Kurt nodded slowly; still anxious, "Are you sure? I can disappear for awhile."

"Positive; I've got to get home," Paul pushed himself up off the couch; slipping his coat over his arms as he moved toward the door.

David remained sitting; his gaze following his father carefully.

Paul turned to smile at him, "Not gonna give your old man a hug goodbye?"

David smiled and pushed himself upright and allowed his father to wrap him in a hug, "I'll…I'll see you Saturday?"

"Of course," Paul clapped David on the arm, "Love you, Dave."

"Love you, too, Dad." David blinked hard; cleared his throat.

Paul turned to smile at Kurt, "I brought you boys a couple pizzas; they're in the kitchen."

"Thank you, Mr. Karofsky." Kurt smiled quickly.

"Paul," he reminded him with a smile. He looked between both of them for a moment, "You two take good care of yourselves, alright?"

They both nodded mutely.

Paul nodded, "Right, then. David, I'll see you in a couple days; call if you need anything."

"I will. See you."

Kurt waited until the door closed and he heard the muted open and close of the door leading to the stairwell before he turned to face David, "I'd hate to make assumptions and then feel like an ass, so I'm going to just casually ask what happened."

David smiled weakly, "You hungry?"

"For information." Kurt nodded, but his stomach gave a loud growl.

David snorted, "Lets grab some pizza first."

They stuck two plates of pizza into the microwave before moving to the kitchen table. Kurt shifted Bocelli's cage to the side so he could watch David's face, "Well?"

David took a bite of his pizza and chewed slowly.

Kurt let out an exasperated sigh, "Dave, it's been like three weeks since you last saw your dad. How can you be more focused on eating than that right now?"

He swallowed and spoke quietly, "It's been twenty four days… I'm still trying to let it sink in, I think."

Kurt quieted; took a bite of his own pizza, but his eyes never left David.

David turned his gaze down toward his plate, "He just… showed up. He handed off the pizzas and asked if we could talk."

"When was that?" Kurt asked quietly.

David glanced up at the clock on their wall, "Like three hours ago."

They fell silent again; the quiet sound of Bocelli twittering and moving around his cage filling their quiet.

"He was worried you were cheating on Blaine with me."

Kurt nearly choked on his food, "Excuse me?"

The smallest hint of a smile pulled at David's mouth, "It was the first thing he asked about when we sat down."

"Oh my  _god._ "

David laughed a little, "…yeah… we talked stuff out, and we're… we're okay."

Kurt managed to subdue some of his initial shock and smiled, "That's wonderful, David."

David nodded; his eyes drifting back to his food, "It… it's kind of a relief, ya know? I'm going with him to some business luncheon thing on Saturday."

Kurt nodded his approval and dabbed at the corner of his mouth with his napkin, "So after you managed to convince him we'd get together only if hell froze over, did you opt to mention anyone else who's captured your attention?"

David blushed furiously and stared down at his plate, "I don't think he's ready to hear that kind of stuff."

"So there is someone you'd mention if he asked," Kurt raised an eyebrow, "How interesting."

"Look, Trip and I… we're just… making out sometimes. That's it."

"Mhm, that's why I catch him sneaking out of here five times a week when I'm coming home from class."

"I'm serious, Hummel." David finally looked up from his plate, "You've been around when he's around; we're not lovey dovey and holding hands and all that shit—we're not you and Blaine."

"So you're a couple but not with the same dynamic as Blaine and I."

"No, that's not—" David grunted his frustration and sat back in his chair. His eyes drifted to the birdcage.

"So he comes over and all you two do is make out?" Kurt plucked his and David's empty plates from the table and moved back into the kitchen.

"Yeah, pretty much."

"You don't talk about anything?" Kurt leaned his elbows on the breakfast bar; his gaze cynical.

"No," David hesitated, "…well, I talk sometimes. He listens."

"What do you talk about?"

"Whatever he asks about," David shrugged, "Why does it matter?"

"Just trying to get a feel for your dynamic." Kurt mirrored David's shrug.

David fell quiet for a moment, "…what kind of dynamic do you think we have?"

"A weird one wrought with sexual tension." Kurt stooped to lift his box from the ground.

David flushed red yet again.

"You should call him; tell him the good news about your dad," Kurt dropped his box down on the table and slid open the flaps, "But in the mean time, look at the wonderfully fun project I brought home for us."

David peered down into the box, "A million little pieces of paper?"

"They're going to be this," Kurt held up a small chain of linked paper wrings; the outsides shimmering with a thin layer of either maroon, brown, orange, or gold paint.

"No way, I'm not getting sucked into your work stuff." David shook his head adamantly.

Kurt pouted, "Fine, I'll get Blaine to do it with me. He's sick and he  _still_  likes to be helpful."

David barked out a short laugh, "Don't give me that; Blaine loves this kind of shit—he's been painting you those stupid stick figure things for weeks."

Kurt rested a hand on his hip and glared, "He does that for fine motor therapy, idiot."

David only smiled in return, "Stop trying to make me feel bad. He loves it and you know it."

Kurt let out an exasperated sigh and lifted the box back off of the table, "Regression to the mean."

"Gesundheit." David leaned back in his chair and watched Kurt stalk toward his bedroom.

Kurt turned to glare at him, "Regression to the mean is the tendency for two people who spend a lot of time together to start acting more and more like one another so you both end up at a sort of middle ground. And you, David, are slowly but surely turning into Trip Morgan."

"I am not." David scowled.

"Your sense of humor and the smirk you just had on your face beg to differ," Kurt quirked an eyebrow before stepping into his bedroom.

"Where are you going?" David frowned, "It's not even eight yet; you can't be going to sleep."

"I am giving you the cold shoulder for your lack of helpfulness," Kurt put the box down on the floor beside his bed.

"You're joking, right?" David stared at Kurt dubiously.

"On the contrary, I'm quite serious. I'm going to shut my door, turn on good music, and work on my incredibly fun and stimulating project while you sit out here wallowing in the fact that you don't get to be in my presence," Kurt looked David over coolly, "I hope you're happy."

David laughed, "You're ridiculous."

"And you're about to be very lonely." Kurt smirked before pivoting on his heel and closing his door.

He smiled in satisfaction when he heard David grumbling on the other side of the door before moving to turn on his Ipod and settling down on his bed. He hauled the box up beside him with a grunt and began the slow process of cutting the paper into different sized strips.

He'd bring them over to Blaine's on Saturday, he decided, so they could paint them together. The cutting process could be potentially frustrating and Kurt was desperately hoping for one whole week in his calendar that would be free of any red dots indicating a particularly nasty episode with Blaine.

"Kurt, come on." David groaned outside his door.

"Unless you're desperately hoping you can help—"

"I'm not."

"Then kindly step away from my bedroom; you breathe so loudly that I can hear you from my bed." Kurt smiled to himself as he settled a finished strip on the bed beside him.

David mumbled something, but then Kurt could hear him moving; the wood of the floor groaning slightly beneath his feet as he retreated to somewhere else in the apartment.

Kurt put the scissors down and pulled out the finished links to inspect. He smoothed an invisible crease in one of the rings and sighed, "Only ten million more to go."

Goals. He needed a goal for how many he would finish tonight. It had taken him twenty seconds to cut one with a wavy edge… he could work for two hours and finish about three hundred, give or take a few given the detail he put into the cutting, and then maybe he could do a little reading for school before calling it a night. He nodded to himself; satisfied with the plan.

He listened to the quiet sound of Adele playing through his Ipod dock and settled himself lower against his pillows as he set to work on cutting link number two. He'd barely finished it when he felt his eyes getting heavy; his thoughts soft and fuzzy around the edges.  _Maybe only one hour of paper chain making tonight… I can always have Blaine start painting on Saturday while I keep cutting to make up for the lost time…_ Kurt stifled a yawn as he reasoned with himself. He could at least make it through sixty links and the first few pages of his assigned readings…

 

* * *

'— _take my hand and take my whole life too because I can't help falling in love with you—"_

 

Kurt jolted awake and looked around his room wildly in an attempt to orient himself.

His phone. His phone was ringing.

He found it half-buried under his pillow. That was Blaine's ringtone, and, judging by the almost nonexistent light coming through the window, he was either calling Kurt very early or very late.

"Blaine, are you okay?" Kurt sat up so fast his head spun a little; he blinked hard to make the white haze over his vision dissipate.

"Huh? Yeah, of course; are you?"

"Yeah…" Kurt glanced at the clock on his nightstand, "Blaine, it's not even six thirty in the morning yet."

"I couldn't sleep…" Blaine's voice was quiet, "know what I wanted to do?"

Kurt looked down at the links he'd completed before apparently drifting off mid-cut. Five. He'd fallen asleep by eight last night with five haphazardly cut paper links finished and not woken once. He wrinkled his nose at the half-crushed strips of paper, "What?"

"I wanted to bring you coffee—remember when we'd meet up for coffee on Friday mornings before school?"

"Of course I do," Kurt smiled and stifled a yawn, "Did you have a bad dream?"

"If I did, I don't remember," Blaine echoed Kurt's yawn, "My sleeping schedule's just been off."

"Mm, you and me both—I fell asleep at eight last night and I have no idea when I'd have gotten up if you didn't call."

"I woke you up?" Blaine suddenly sounded remorseful, "Sorry; in my head, you're always up before me, so I just kind of figured if I was awake, you would be, too."

"Mm, well I'm up now and I just got almost ten hours of sleep," Kurt stretched his free arm above his head; enjoying the pull on his tight muscles, "And I just so happen to have no work today and a power lecture I would absolutely love to skip—want to help me play hooky?"

"I'd love to."

"Good," Kurt slid his feet off the bed and rolled a shoulder absently; still trying to work out the kinks in his back from sleeping half-sitting up, "Give me a couple hours to get gorgeous for you and I'll be over, okay?"

"You could come as you are and you'd still make me swoon."

Kurt snorted, "Clearly you have no idea what I look like right now. I didn't wash my face, I slept in my clothes, and I didn't even brush my teeth last night, Blaine."

"And yet you make me melt." Blaine sighed loudly.

"Watch out, your tumor's talking," Kurt laughed quietly, "Give me a little time, go put on something cute, and get your paintbrushes out; I have a project for us."

"Fine; any outfit requests?" Kurt could hear Blaine pushing himself up off his bed.

"Anything but that awful green polo," Kurt blanched as he padded toward the bathroom, "It makes you look like a deranged leprechaun."

Blaine gasped indignantly, "It does not."

"You could lie down on the putting green at a golf course in that shirt and no one would know you were there." Kurt reached into the shower and turned the water on, opting to avoid looking into the mirror in his current state.

Blaine huffed again, "I'm going to wear it just to be spiteful."

"You don't have a spiteful bone in your body," Kurt smiled, "The longer you keep me engaged in this argument, the longer it's going to take me to get to your house."

"Fine; I'll surprise you with my shirt choice; I'll see you in a bit."

Kurt dropped his phone down on the counter and stripped off his clothes, sure that he'd never been happier to take an outfit off.

He took his time getting ready; he shampooed his hair twice and gave his skin extra attention to make up for the routine breach the previous night before moving back into his bedroom to put together an outfit.

His phone buzzed on his nightstand with a new text.

_Tick tock tick tock tick tock….. –Blaine_

Kurt rolled his eyes but couldn't force down a smile. Blaine had seemed happy the past few weeks; almost alarmingly so. He was doing better at work with his father, apparently having fun with some of his practice activities provided by his therapists, and—most importantly—he hadn't had any sort of angry outburst in nearly nine days. Kurt checked his sweater in the mirror and applied one more spritz of hairspray before typing out a response.

_Practically, almost, sort of, basically on my way there. XOXOXO –K_

He yawned for what felt like the millionth time that morning and decided making coffee was a necessity before leaving.

He stepped out of his bedroom; careful to avoid the floorboards he knew creaked as he crept toward the kitchen.

He worked through the steps of getting the coffee brewing with quick fingers and then stood idly, watching the pot steam and hiss. He drummed his fingers on the counter impatiently and finally decided to make himself toast before he left, too, if only to keep his hands busy.

By the time he'd pulled his breakfast out of the toaster and dropped it on a plate, the pot still wasn't done filling. Kurt glared at it, cursed his own stupidity for not investing in a more high quality product, and finally pulled the pot out without waiting for it to finish brewing.

He dumped the coffee into a thermos and took a sip, which ended up being his second coffee-related regret of the morning. He resisted the urge to simultaneously swear when he burned his tongue and gag when he realized he'd made the coffee too strong. He put his mug down on the counter and wished it were as intimidated by his icy glare as some of his peers were.

With a noisy sigh, Kurt stuck his head in the fridge and peered around. He heard the soft click of a door opening somewhere behind him. Strange. David was never up before nine on Fridays now that his hours had shifted, let alone before eight, "You're up early—hey, did you buy creamer when you went to the store?"

"No, dear, and it's too bad you don't take sugar in your coffee because if you poured a bit of that sweet ass in your cup, I'm sure it would be absolutely divine."

Kurt hit his head a shelf before managing to pivot around to look at the room's other occupant.

Trip was grinning at him from the other side of the breakfast bar. His hair was disheveled and his shirt wrinkled. He appraised Kurt as he shrugged on his Dalton blazer, "You look nice."

Kurt gaped at him, "What are you doing here?"

"I'm not here," Trip pressed a finger to his lips, still grinning at the look on Kurt's face, "You never saw me."

"Trip, did you—did you sleep with Dav—"

"I'd love to stay and chat, but I'm late for school, and Jesus fucking knows I'll get my ass handed to me by those damn Warblers if I don't make it to morning practice," Trip snagged a piece of toast from Kurt's plate and talked around a mouthful of food as he made for the door, "Have a fantastic day, darling!"

"Trip, I—" The door was already closed.

Kurt blinked at it for a minute and considered going into David's room to demand an explanation. He'd barely taken three steps forward when he thought better of it. He wasn't sure if he wanted to be in David's room right now. He opted to scribble out a note instead.

_Dave—_

_Playing hooky for the day; went to Blaine's. When I get home can we talk about something? Please and thank you._

_-Kurt_

_P.S. BUY COFFEE CREAMER!_

Kurt looked toward David's door one more time and wrinkled his nose in distaste before jogging out to the parking lot and getting in his car.

With the traffic all coming from the opposite direction, Kurt made the drive from his place to Blaine's in record time. He checked his hair in the rearview mirror, pinched his cheeks for a little color, hefted his box of work supplies into his arms, and finally got out of his car to ring the bell.

Blaine answered the door with a grin, "Hi."

Kurt was nearly bursting with his news (and simultaneously ready to fall over with the weight of the stupid box in his arms), "Guess who was in my apartment this morning?"

Blaine looked down at the box in Kurt's arms then back to his face in confusion, "Uh… Dave?"

"Close; he spent the night in David's room." Kurt hinted as he made his way toward the kitchen.

Blaine's eyes went wide, "No."

" _Yes_." Kurt laughed and dropped the box down on the table.

"He was there to see Karofsky…" Blaine frowned, "You're sure?"

"Unless he broke in to see Bocelli at five in the morning, mussed up his hair a bit, then slammed a door for fun, then, yes, I'm sure," Kurt studied Blaine's solemn expression, "Why do you look so mad?"

"I'm not mad…" Blaine sighed; rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, "I'm… concerned."

"David blushes at the mention of kissing him, so I doubt too much actually happened, Blaine." Kurt rolled his eyes as he unbuttoned his jacket.

Blaine stepped behind him and helped pull the jacket off his arms, "David might have some reservations, but Trip hasn't always been one to… hold back."

"Really? How shocking," Kurt glanced over his shoulder at Blaine with an eyebrow raised.

"I'm not just talking about the things he says… he went through a bit of a, um… promiscuous phase before I met him," Blaine draped Kurt's coat over the back of a chair; his expression still anxious, "He's been doing well here; I just don't want to see him get triggered back into any bad habits."

"I'm going to tell you one more time," Kurt stepped in closer to Blaine and squeezed his hands gently, "David isn't that bad. I think you just dislike him out of habit at this point."

Blaine smiled faintly, "Like how you claim to despise Trip?"

"I don't despise Trip," Kurt sighed; let go of Blaine's wrists, "I just have an unshakable desire to punch him in the face."

"Fair enough," Blaine's eyes drifted over Kurt's face, "You look tired."

"You know 'you look tired' is usually code for 'you look like shit', right?" Kurt pouted.

"You look gorgeous, just a very  _sleepy_  gorgeous," Blaine nodded toward the coffee pot, "My mom just made that like fifteen minutes ago; you want some?"

Kurt eyed the pot longingly, "…you're sure she won't mind?"

"She left to go to the bank or something after I told her you were on your way over; she's done with it." Blaine moved to a cabinet and pulled down two mugs.

Kurt leaned his elbows into the island and yawned, "I thought coffee tasted wrong for you or upset your stomach or something."

"It does—I'm having tea." Blaine nodded toward the sink, "I finally have a use for that hot water spout thing outside of making instant Ramen."

"Instant Ramen is probably what gave you cancer in the first place." Kurt made a face.

"Instant Ramen is delicious," Blaine shot back. He set Kurt's mug down on the island in front of him, "Cream?"

"Yes, please," Kurt wrapped his hands around the mug and inhaled deeply, "Mm, it smells like you."

"I haven't had a cup of coffee in months." Blaine pulled open the fridge and scanned the contents in the door before pulling a bottle of creamer out from beside the milk.

"I know, but I associate the smell with you, therefore, this soon-to-be amazing cup of coffee smells like—"

The carton of creamer slipped from Blaine's hand and hit the floor with a dull thwack and then a sudden rush of white pooled out over the floor; splattered the front of the refrigerator. Kurt looked up at Blaine; watched his face for a sudden flash of anger.  _Please don't get upset with yourself, please don't get upset with yourself, please don't—_

Blaine stood still for a moment, his expression stormy. He looked back up at Kurt with a small smile, but his voice was tense, "No use crying over spilt milk, right?"

Kurt laughed in relief, "Yeah…well, it's creamer, but still the same concept."

Blaine raised an eyebrow as he moved to wet a dishcloth beneath the tap, "No snide remarks about my terrible jokes?"

"No, that was actually mildly endearing this time," Kurt slipped out of his chair, "Do you want some help?"

Blaine waved him away with his free hand, "I've got it."

Kurt lowered himself back down and watched Blaine wipe up the mess, "You're unusually energetic."

Blaine finished wiping up the last of the cream and looked up at Kurt, his expression flat, "This is about a tenth of my old energy level."

Kurt mentally kicked himself, "Compared to recently though, this is a nice change."

"Nice to have a few days away from the office so I could put my energy into something other than paperwork," Blaine shrugged.

Kurt took a sip of his coffee. It was a little bitter but not totally unbearable.

"Do you want milk instead?" Blaine opened the fridge again and motioned in.

Kurt looked down into his coffee cup; debated whether or not to take the chance of a second drop with a much less genial reaction from Blaine.

Blaine didn't wait for his reply. He pulled the milk out of the fridge and crouched down.

Kurt frowned at him, "Blaine, what are you—Oh my God."

Blaine moved across the floor on his knees, pushing the milk ahead of him. He offered a smile when he arrived at Kurt's feet, "Avoiding a second accident."

"If you were also hoping to avoid a loss of dignity, I'm sorry to say you failed." Kurt laughed and picked up the milk carton from the floor.

"Not at all; the other goal was to make your laugh," Blaine brushed his knees off as he got to his feet and returned to the island to tend to his own mug, "So my mission was a complete…a complete…"

"Success." Kurt offered.

Blaine took the seat beside him and sighed, "Exactly."

Kurt reached across the small space between them and squeezed Blaine's wrist, "It's early; it was a little mistake."

Blaine met his eyes, a shadow of a smile on his mouth, but his gaze quickly dropped back to his mug.

Kurt watched Blaine prod at the teabag in his mug, "You seem…happy today, or optimistic or something."

Blaine looked up, "Am I usually a total curmudgeon?"

"No, but you've been so much more serious lately," Kurt brushed his foot against Blaine's ankle underneath the table, "I take it chemo hasn't been hitting you quite so hard this week?"

Blaine shrugged, "Bumblebee flies anyway."

"Excuse me?"

Blaine toyed with the string hanging out of his mug, "Bees… they shouldn't be able to fly—something about wing size and body mass—but they can."

Kurt nodded, though he was at a complete loss, "Okay…"

"So, the idea is maybe since they don't know that they shouldn't be able to fly, they still can." Blaine fished his teabag out of his cup and dropped it down onto a napkin.

Kurt frowned, "Not sure I'm following, Blaine."

Blaine kept his eyes on his cup, "So I'm following the same logic. Well, sort of."

"Still lost over here." Kurt took a drink from his mug but kept his eyes on Blaine.

"Force enough optimism and hopefully it'll turn real... I guess not quite the same thing…more like self-inflicted brainwashing." Blaine pulled the teabag out of his cup and dropped it down on a napkin.

Kurt put his cup down quietly, "You're trying to suppress the idea that you're unhappy?"

Blaine lifted his cup and took a drink; his eyes on the far wall.

Kurt spoke again when Blaine didn't, "Blaine, are you unhappy?"

"I…no, I just—trying something new, that's all," Blaine's eyes flickered from his mug to the other side of the table, "What's in the box?"

Kurt contemplated forcing the topic of Blaine's mental state longer, but Blaine wouldn't meet his eyes. After a moment, he tore his gaze from Blaine and looked toward the box resting on the other side of the table, "I need some help with a project—you in the mood to do a little painting?"

Blaine stood and peered into the box, "Sure, what're we painting?"

"A paper chain; not all of the pieces need to be painted; but I need watercolors on most of them," Kurt sipped at his coffee, "I meant to get a bunch done last night, but I fell asleep."

Blaine nodded, "Sounds easy enough."

"It's a bit on the monotonous side." Kurt watched as Blaine pulled out a few strips of paper and turned them over in his hands.

"We'll make it fun," Blaine finally looked at Kurt to smile, "We can refill your coffee cup; put on some music—it'll be nice."

Kurt studied Blaine's face, "…yeah; sure… do you want to do it here or in your room?"

Blaine smirked, "Call me traditional, but I prefer the bedroom."

Kurt rolled his eyes, "Oh my God, grow up."

Blaine laughed, "Seriously though, lets take this upstairs—the stereo's in the family room and the sound won't carry out to the kitchen very well."

Kurt gathered up his box—balancing his coffee cup precariously on top—and made for the stairs. Blaine trailed behind with his own mug cradled between both hands, "When does your dad get back into town?"

Blaine set his mug down on his desk before dropping down onto his stomach on the floor, "Today sometime, I think, him and my mom have that gala thing tomorrow—are you coming here or am I going to your place?"

"I'm coming here," Kurt sat down in Blaine's desk chair with the box in his lap and watched as Blaine wormed his way half-under his bed, " _And_  I'm spending the night—your parents have a hotel room downtown."

Blaine emerged out from under the bed with a faded sheet in his hands. He made a face, "There's something profoundly awkward about the idea of my parents getting too drunk to drive and needing to stay at a hotel."

"Are you complaining that you're being given permission to have a sleepover with me?" Kurt set the box down on the desk and helped Blaine to spread the sheet out across the carpet.

"Never," Blaine moved to his closet to pull down a shoebox filled with paints from the top shelf, "You sure you want to come over tomorrow, though?"

"Call me crazy, but my list of things to do not including you is fairly small." Kurt laughed as he began unpacking sheets of paper from his box.

"Yeah, but tomorrow's Halloween," Blaine sat down beside Kurt; his expression suddenly concerned.

"So we'll be sitting by the front door handing out candy," Kurt shrugged, "We can judge the shit out of the kids' costumes."

Blaine didn't smile, "Puck and Finn didn't invite you to any parties on campus?"

"Yes, but do you honestly think I want to spend my night comforting a drunk Finn because he misses Rachel and watching Puck hit on girls dressed like slutty Dorothy's while he's dressed up as Michael Phelps or something equally douchey?"

Blaine's frown intensified, "So you're going to sit at home with me and hand out candy instead of going out?"

"It's not like I ever go out and party, Blaine." Kurt set to work cutting out a strip of paper.

Blaine toyed with his paintbrush, "You could, you know—go out I mean. You don't have to come hang out with me every Friday and Saturday night."

"I could if that's what I wanted to do," Kurt leaned toward Blaine and kissed his cheek, "But it isn't."

"But if you ever wanted to, you—"

"Blaine, I am fully aware of my ability to make my own decisions, but thank you for the reminder," Kurt turned his attention back to his project, "Excuse me but why is there no music playing?"

Kurt looked up when Blaine didn't answer right away to find him staring down at his paints; his expression drawn.

Kurt reached over and touched the worry line between Blaine's eyebrows, "You're going to give yourself premature wrinkles frowning like that. If you're still fretting over Halloween, stop. I am doing exactly what I want to do and that's being with you."

Blaine sighed, "Fine… what'd you say before?"

"I asked why you haven't picked out any music for us to listen to."

"You're letting me pick?" Blaine's eyebrows shot up, "You never let me pick."

Kurt leaned in and touched another kiss to Blaine's mouth, "Well I'm letting you pick now. Choose wisely."

Blaine hummed happily and got up to turn on his Ipod.

"Nothing off of either one of our bedtime playlists, though; I think I'm conditioned to fall asleep to those songs now." Kurt set to work cutting a wavy pattern around the edges of one of the pieces of paper.

Blaine picked out a playlist before settling back down beside him.

They worked in compatible silence; Kurt humming along to the music and Blaine dedicating all of his attention to painting the pieces of paper Kurt handed off to him. After nearly two hours, Kurt nudged Blaine's foot with his, "Are you sick of this yet?"

"Getting there," Blaine put down his paintbrush and massaged his palm, "How many did we get done?"

"I cut like two hundred and something…" Kurt scanned the line of finished links spread out across the sheet, still glistening with wet paint, "And we have about thirty or forty painted."

Blaine laid his most recent strip of paper in line with the rest, "Sorry I'm not very fast at this."

"Your part takes longer," Kurt kissed Blaine's cheek, "Thank you for helping me do this; you're a lifesaver."

"What're you gonna do with them when they're finished?"

"We're doing a big, elaborate paper chain display thing," Kurt pulled the set of eight he'd already stapled together out from inside the box, "It'll be like these but much, much bigger."

"We had a paper chain in my third grade classroom," Blaine said carefully.

"It's not going to look like a classroom," Kurt made a face at Blaine, "Just wait and see; it'll be great."

"I'll take your word for it," Blaine stepped carefully around the wet paper links on the floor toward the bathroom, "My turn to suggest an activity?"

"As long as I can reserve the right to shoot down your suggestion," Kurt glanced up from the strips of paper he was packing back into the box for Blaine's confirmation. When Blaine nodded, he waved a hand at him, "Suggest away."

"Lets go rake the yard." Blaine grinned at Kurt from where he was washing out the paintbrushes in the sink.

"Denied."

"Come on, it's fun—I want to make a leaf pile," Blaine pouted.

Kurt rolled his eyes, "Blaine, we're not seven."

"The raking part makes it an adult activity."

"I'll get blisters and calluses on my hands, and I  _just_  gave myself a manicure."

"You will not."

"Will, too."

"Please?" Blaine batted his eyes at Kurt, "Pretty please?"

Kurt groaned, "God, fine."

"Yes!" Blaine abandoned the paintbrushes in the sink in favor of crossing the room to pull a hat on.

Kurt eyed Blaine's thin Henley warily. He himself had been chilled walking from his car to the front door in a light jacket, and he was perfectly healthy… he glanced toward Blaine's closet, "Can I play Barbie with you?"

"I'm already dressed," Blaine looked down at his shirt, "I didn't even wear the green polo."

"I know, but it's freezing out." Kurt moved toward the closet and began pushing through hangers in search of the heaviest shirt he could find.

"Is not; it's sunny," Blaine motioned a hand toward the window.

"You get cold just sitting in my apartment." Kurt rubbed his thumb and forefinger over the sleeve of a burgundy colored cardigan.

"Your apartment's freezing," Blaine moved to stand beside Kurt.

Satisfied with its thickness, Kurt pulled the cardigan off of its hanger and held it out to Blaine, "My apartment is seventy degrees and it's definitely at least fifteen degrees colder than that outside."

Blaine stared down at the sweater for a moment before sighing and slipping it over his shoulders, "Satisfied?"

"No," Kurt moved out of Blaine's room and down the stairs toward the front hall closet.

When Kurt offered a scarf, fall jacket, and mittens, Blaine took a step back, "It's October."

"It's almost November." Kurt replied pointedly.

"You're dressing me for a blizzard." Blaine folded his arms across his chest.

"I am not; look, I have a hat, jacket, and scarf, too," Kurt nodded toward where his own clothes were hanging.

Blaine worked his tongue in his mouth as he looked between Kurt's things and his own.

"Leave that thing in your mouth alone; you'll make it worse," Kurt spoke gently, "Do you want to go outside or not?"

Blaine took the pile of offered clothing items, but looked pointedly at Kurt, "I don't want the mittens."

"Oh my God, you are so painfully stubborn sometimes, I sweat—okay, fine; whatever." Kurt slid on his own things and waited patiently for Blaine to ready himself.

When he was finally dressed—and Kurt had fussed over his scarf and pulled his hat down lower over his ears—they set off to explore the garage for rakes.

Once the rakes had been found and they'd set to work in the yard, Blaine worked happily while Kurt muttered irritably under his breath.

"This is my favorite time of year," Blaine announced, "Remember when I put those pretty leaves in your backpack before school last year one time?"

Kurt looked up from the leaves he was kicking into their steadily growing pile to glare at Blaine, "Yes, I do."

"They were pretty and I wrote nice notes on them for you," Blaine paused too; panting for breath, "I thought you liked them."

Kurt smiled despite himself, "The intent was well appreciated; the mess those things made in my backpack when they got crushed was, however, not so desirable."

"I cleaned it all out for you," Blaine pouted but then turned his attention to the street, "Isn't that Trip's car?"

Kurt looked up to see a car pulling up along the curb. He sighed, "Yes, it is."

Trip climbed out and crossed the lawn to them, "Well, well, well; look at you two little worker bees."

Blaine frowned, "You're supposed to be in class, Trip."

"Relax, I'm not cutting," Trip rolled his eyes and kicked idly at the leaf pile, "You know what the best part is of going to a school where the buildings are old as shit?"

"No, but I'm sure you'll tell us." Kurt knocked Trip's foot away from the leaves with his rake.

"Asbestos scare; they cancelled classes for the day, and since the Warblers aren't allowed to practice in the dorm study rooms, and there isn't a dorm room big enough to hold all of them touch stepping at once, I have the day off." Trip grinned victoriously, "And I decided it was my Christian duty to come check in on Blaine."

"I'm surprised you didn't feel like dropping in on David." Kurt smirked.

Much to Kurt's disappointment, Trip looked unfettered by the comment, "He's at work."

"So are you two an item now? Boyfriends? What?" Kurt frowned.

"If we're going to get picky about semantics, I prefer the term fuck buddies." Trip sat down on the bottom step of the porch and pulled a cigarette out of his pocket.

"Trip." Blaine frowned at him.

"Don't 'Trip' me, pal, I can do as I please with who I please," Trip lit his cigarette and stared coolly at Blaine, "I'm not the same guy that I was last year and I'm definitely not the guy I was two years ago. I can handle myself. And before you can ask, yes, I remember the intimacy issues chat we had."

Blaine leaned against the handle of his rake; still frowning, "Just be—"

Trip blew a smoke ring and watched it fade in the cold October air, "If you finish that sentence, I'm going to throw my cigarette in your leaf pile."

"Don't you dare," Blaine scowled and turned his attention back to raking leaves into the pile.

Kurt, however, was still gaping at Trip, "You two actually— But David's a—just like that? You go from zero to sixty in like a month?"

Trip leaned his elbows back on the step behind him and smirked, "Has David been divulging all the details of our set up?"

"Well, no, not exactly but he said you guys were just—you've just been making out," Kurt frowned nervously at Trip, "… right?"

Trip's smirk blossomed into a grin, "Yeah, sure, making out with my—"

"Stop! Oh my God, don't!" Kurt let go of his rake and clamped his hands over his ears, "Ew. Ew. Ew.  _Ew_."

Trip laughed, "Aw, come on, you and Blaine aren't exactly the world's most PG couple."

Kurt and Blaine exchanged a look before Kurt crouched down to pick up his rake again.

Trip looked between them with raised eyebrows, "Uh oh, who's not putting out?"

"Hush," Kurt kicked a stick toward Trip, and shot him a warning look.

Trip glanced down at the stick by his feet before looking back at them with a frown, "You two are like an old married couple."

Kurt glanced toward Blaine, but Blaine was staring down at the ground as he raked up more leaves into the pile.

Either not caring if he got a response or simply not noticing the sudden silence, Trip yawned loudly and tipped his head back toward the sky, "Nice day."

Blaine finally looked up from his work to peer up at the sky, "Yeah, it is."

Kurt noted Blaine's flushed cheeks and shaky hands, "I think our leaf pile is big enough for now."

Blaine looked back down at the pile and walked around it, inspecting each side critically before looking out at the rest of the front lawn, "There's a lot more leaves in the yard still…"

"I vote we take a break and enjoy our current handiwork."  _And you're clearly exhausted and I don't want you to be hurting tomorrow._

Blaine stared down at the pile in silence for another minute before suddenly dropping down into it with a grin. He held out his arms toward Kurt, "Come here."

Kurt sat down primly; careful to keep his back straight and his head well away from the leaves.

Blaine laughed, "That's not how you get into a leaf pile. Weren't you ever a kid?"

"Yes, but unlike you, I wasn't also half-puppy." Kurt folded his hands neatly in his lap.

Blaine sat up, paying no mind to the leaves stuck to his hat, "Trip, tell him he's doing this all wrong."

Trip's gaze was still on the sky, "You're doing it all wrong."

"Lot of help you are," Blaine huffed and turned his attention back to Kurt, "You have to jump in."

"I'm not jumping in." Kurt reached up and plucked a leaf off of Blaine's hat.

"Please?"

"No."

"Will you at least lay back?" Blaine smiled hopefully.

"Why can't you just be content to have me sit here beside you?"

"Because you are missing out on eighty percent of the experience if you don't lay down," Blaine patted the leaves between them, "You're already missing out on fifteen percent by refusing to jump."

"Oh my God, if you'll stop nagging, I'll do it." Kurt let out an aggravated sigh.

Blaine watched him eagerly as he eased himself back on his elbows until leaves were crackling around his ears and his vision was filled with sky and tree branches above them. Blaine flopped down beside him gracelessly.

Kurt turned to glare at Blaine, "Happy?"

"Yes," Blaine kissed the tip of Kurt's nose, "I am."

Kurt laughed quietly, "I'm glad."

"It's nice, right?" Blaine motioned a hand at their bodies.

"Yes, it is." Kurt admitted. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the warmth of the sun on his face.

They stared up at the sky in silence until Blaine laced a hand behind Kurt's head and leaned his face in close to his neck.

"What are you doing?" Kurt tried to turn his head toward him, but Blaine held it steady; his nose nuzzled behind his ear.

He inhaled deeply and exhaled in a sigh, "Smelling you."

"Smelling me?" Kurt lifted a hand to his nose and sniffed.

"Mhm," Blaine inhaled again, "You smell like October."

"October's not a scent," Kurt smiled and plucked a crumpled leaf from the wool of his scarf.

"Yes it is; here," Blaine tilted his head and motioned at his neck, "Smell."

Kurt gave him a dubious look but humored him anyway, tilting his nose in close to the small, exposed patch of skin between Blaine's hat and scarf. His nose tickled with the earthy sweet scent of fallen leaves and cold air and something else warm… did sunshine and cloudless skies have a smell?

When he pulled back, Blaine was smiling at him hopefully, "Well?"

Kurt laughed, "You smell like October."

"Told you," Blaine grinned triumphantly. He leaned in closer; leaves rustling and crackling beneath both of their bodies as he pressed a kiss to Kurt's lips.

"Do I taste like October, too?" Kurt teased.

"No," Blaine touched another kiss to his mouth, "You taste like Kurt."

"I might actually be dry heaving over here," Trip groaned.

Kurt barely heard him. He smiled at Blaine and laced their fingers together, selfishly grateful that Blaine had protested the mittens when he felt the soft coldness of his palm flush with his own, "Love you."

"Love you more." Blaine murmured.

The muffled sound of his phone ringing brought Kurt out of his bliss. He sighed and pulled it from his pocket, "Hello?"

"Kurt, it's Darcy. Where are you?"

"I don't work Fridays," Kurt spoke as patiently as he could, "I did extra hours on Monday and Tuesday to make up for not being there tomorrow afternoon and evening, too."

Darcy didn't seem to hear him, "Do you still have that box of paper I gave you yesterday?"

"Of course."

"Was there fifteen rolls of scarlet, orange, and eggplant colored two inch ribbon in the bottom of the box?"

Kurt closed his eyes and tried to remember, "…yes?"

"Thank God; I've been looking for them everywhere. Bring them in. You can mark it as an entire hour paid."

"Darcy I'm not—"

"I need them within the next forty six to fifty two minutes. If I'm not in, drop it off with one of the other interns."

"Darcy, I—" The line went dead.

Kurt groaned and sat up, "I have to go drop something off at Anthro."

"You're leaving me?" Blaine looked up at Kurt sadly.

"Afraid so… unless you want to come with me," Kurt smiled at Blaine hopefully.

"Go with you to work?"

"Yeah! I'm just dropping some things off and having you there is the perfect excuse if Darcy tries to drag me into doing a project," Kurt nodded; suddenly excited over the idea, "And you can see all my work!"

Blaine nodded slowly, "Yeah, okay. Why not?"

Kurt clapped his hands together; suddenly happy to be going into the store so he could show off his projects to Blaine and show off Blaine to his co-workers, "Perfect. Lets go!"

"I'm going to call that my cue to leave," Trip ground his cigarette out on the step, "This has been fun, but I don't think I can tolerate you two saps on an outing right this minute."

"Suit yourself," Kurt shrugged and fished through his pocket until he found his keys, "Blaine, you can wait in the car. I just have to run grab some things from upstairs and I'll be right back down."

Kurt gathered up the rolls of ribbon (thankfully, there were exactly fifteen), dumped them on Blaine's lap once he was seated in the car, and pulled out of the driveway. He talked animatedly at Blaine for the entirety of the drive—describing the projects that were his and giving a short run through of all of his co-workers.

When they pulled into the parking lot, Kurt twisted sideways in his seat to face Blaine, "So remember, look unimpressed with the quilt display, but act completely awed by the kitchenware area, okay?"

Blaine laughed, "And compliment the bedazzled pumpkins if they're still there. I remember."

"Perfect." Kurt clapped his hands together before gathering up the ribbon in his arms, "Lets—"

"Wait," Blaine leaned over and pulled a leaf out of Kurt's scarf. He tucked it into his pocket and smiled, " _Now_  you're perfect. Lets go."

Kurt paraded into the store happily, not minding at all that he smelled like fallen leaves and that his cheeks were still flushed pink.

Blaine whistled, "Wow, look at that kitchenware section."

Kurt laughed, "Don't tease. Actually go look at it while I drop these things off in the back room."

Kurt watched Blaine wander over toward the displays of plates and dinnerware before hurrying toward the back. He elbowed his way through the EMPLOYEES ONLY door and dropped down his load with a relieved sigh. He glanced at the schedule posted on the wall to ensure he'd gotten his Saturday off as promised before turning and moving back to the main showroom. He made his way up to kitchenware but frowned when he couldn't find Blaine.

"Did you miss me so much that you just had to come in today?"

Kurt jumped at the sudden sound of a voice behind him. But he smiled when he turned around, "Forty eight hours was just too long."

Reese grinned, "I know the feeling. That awful twenty four hours between noon on Wednesdays and Thursdays is an absolute killer for me."

"Just imagine how you're going to feel when the internship is over." Kurt smiled good-naturedly, but he continued to scan over the room for Blaine.

"I'd rather not think about that just yet," Reese chuckled, "So what actually brings you here today? Shopping with that employee discount?"

"Yes, I just had to have a ninety-five dollar lamp made out of seashells," Kurt rolled his eyes, "Darcy called. She needed ribbon that, for God only knows what reason, made its way into my box of paper chain material."

"Thank Jesus, she was in a rage looking for that stuff. You're my hero for bringing it in."

"Right," Kurt snorted but then lit up when he saw Blaine appear from around the side of a display, "Blaine! Come here."

Blaine looked between Kurt and Reese for a moment before approaching.

"I was looking for you," Kurt smiled, "Where'd you run off to?"

"Admiring everything; trying to guess which projects are yours." Blaine shrugged and smiled.

"Well that's easy enough," Reese clapped Kurt on the shoulder with a grin, "Whatever pieces look the most awe-inspiring tend to belong to Kurt."

Kurt rolled his eyes, "If you can call arranging throw pillows and scented soaps awe-inspiring, then yes, that's exactly how you can tell."

Reese smiled at Kurt for a moment longer before turning his gaze to Blaine, "You must be the famous boyfriend, then."

Blaine held out a hand, "My name's Blaine."

Reese looked him over subtly as he shook his hand, "So I've heard. I'm Reese."

"Reese." Blaine echoed; nodding as though suddenly understanding something.

"How far are you on your part of that paper chain nightmare?" Reese turned his attention back to Kurt.

Kurt made a face, "Not far enough. Blaine helped me get some of it done today, but I'm going to have to forgo sleep for the next three days if I want to finish on time."

"Wanna get together and work on it? Say Saturday?" Reese made a scissor motion with two of his fingers, "I'll cut if you paint."

"That's Halloween; don't you have plans with that personal trainer guy to go to a party?"

Reese sighed, "Not actually a personal trainer it turns out. The shirt wasn't his."

Kurt gasped, "He's a liar! He told you he worked at the new gym!"

Blaine muffled a cough at Kurt's side.

"He does," Reese laughed, "He mans the front desk."

"Deceitful; even worse," Kurt smiled sympathetically, "He could at least be a trainer for Halloween, couldn't he?"

Reese shrugged, "I guess, but I already cancelled on him. You in for being totally lame with me? We can put in a bad horror movie; tell scary stories about Alina and Dar—hey, man, you okay?"

Blaine tried to nod, but the gesture was almost invisible with the coughs that were still racking his body.

Kurt rubbed a hand over Blaine's back and glanced up at Reese, "It's just the remnants of a cold."

Reese nodded but looked unconvinced, "I'll go grab him a water bottle out of the back."

Kurt turned his attention back to Blaine, "Hey, you wanna sit down?"

Blaine shook his head, still coughing.

Kurt kept rubbing Blaine's back and shot cold glares to the few customers who paused to glance at them.

Finally, the cough faded and Blaine dropped his arm; his voice was hoarse, "Jesus, I thought this stupid cold was gone."

Kurt laughed quietly; his hand still smoothing over Blaine's jacket, "I blame the leaves. You probably got them in your lungs."

Blaine rubbed at his watery eyes, "Maybe."

"Hey, sounding better," Reese returned; a water bottle held out toward Blaine, "You can have this anyway. We've got a whole fridge full in the back. Save it for another coughing fit."

"Thanks." Blaine mumbled and took the offered bottle.

"Not a problem," Reese clapped Blaine on the arm and turned his gaze back to Kurt, "Do I need to repeat my Halloween proposal?"

"No, I heard it, and, A, You're horrible—Alina is obnoxious but not at all terrifying," Kurt laughed, "And, B, Blaine and I have big plans to hand out candy tomorrow night, don't we?"

"Sorry, what?" Blaine tore his eyes away from Reese to look at Kurt.

"I said we're sugaring up little kids an hour before their bedtimes so parents will have no hopes of getting any sleep. I should fashion us some devil costumes—I'm sure we have enough scraps in the back for me to whip something together."

"Well if anyone can throw together an amazing last minute costume, I'm sure it's you," Reese smiled, "And you'd make a very cute devil."

"Another day, maybe, when I'm feeling more ambitious. Right now I'm dying for a nap. Blaine, you ready to go?"

Blaine nodded; his eyes moving back to Reese, "…Nice meeting you."

"You too, man, and hey, good luck with everything." Reese smiled sympathetically.

"I'll see you Monday—if you wanted to accidentally make about two hundred extra links for our paper chain so I could do less, I wouldn't complain." Kurt slipped his hand into Blaine's.

"I'll consider it. See ya around; Happy Halloween."

"You, too," Kurt waved over his shoulder. He nudged Blaine's shoulder as he pulled him back toward the front, "Did you go look at the bathroom area? Were you blown away by the talent and creativity of your boyfriend?"

"Uh huh."

Kurt glanced at Blaine's suddenly tired face. He tucked their joint hands in his pocket, "Come on; there's a bed at your house with our names written all over it."

Even after they took a nearly two-hour nap, Blaine was quiet. When they went downstairs, Blaine allowed Elizabeth to kiss him hello and answered her questions about their morning, but was otherwise silent. Unsure of what else to do with a suddenly sullen Blaine, Kurt coaxed him into going back outside, but Blaine lay on his back amidst the leaves quietly; his gaze far off.

By the time the sun had set and Elizabeth was working in the kitchen, Blaine was still quiet. He sat next to Kurt on the couch and listened to his commentary on the Sex and the City movie without offering any of his own.

When Elizabeth asked Kurt to stay for dinner, he was tempted to say no for a fleeting moment, but he agreed with a smile.

"It wasn't that long ago that you had to practically pull teeth to get them to let me eat over." Kurt murmured in Blaine's ear.

Blaine nodded; his eyes still on the television screen.

When John finally arrived home, they sat down at the table to eat.

Blaine pushed his food around his plate in silence.

"How was your couple of days off, sport?" John motioned his fork at Blaine.

"Good; thanks." Blaine murmured, his eyes still on his plate.

John watched Blaine curiously, "What's you do to fill up your time?"

Blaine shrugged, "Nothing much."

John and Liz exchanged a look.

"We raked the lawn today and Blaine came in to Anthropologie with me when I had to drop some things off," Kurt nudged Blaine's foot gently under the table, "We had fun, didn't we?"

"Mhm."

Liz looked down at where Blaine was pushing pasta across his plate, "Are you feeling alright, honey? You haven't touched your dinner."

"Not hungry."

The table fell quiet for a beat.

John cleared his throat and looked at his wife, "Did you talk to Ryan Stanley's wife about tomorrow?"

"Yes; everything's ready to go," Elizabeth turned to smile at Blaine and Kurt, "I bought some candy at the store today—you wouldn't believe how picked over it was—if you and Blaine want to, you can hand it out tomorrow. The little girls down the street adore Blaine, so I'm sure they'll be by to show off their costumes, but if you'd prefer a quiet night, you can just put the bowl outside the door."

Kurt smiled, "You think kids are honest enough to not just dump the whole bowl in their bags if you do that?"

"Put a note on it that says they'll be cursed if they take more than one piece." John smiled.

"John, that's terrible!" Elizabeth laughed.

Blaine looked up abruptly, "Did you think about the fact that maybe it pisses me off that you called Kurt and asked him to come stay with me without saying anything about it to me first?"

Elizabeth's smile faded into a confused frown, "Honey, we thought you'd be excited that Kurt was going to—"

"That he was going to come over to babysit?" Blaine snapped, "And don't tell me that's not what it is. You're afraid to leave me alone in the house for more than a couple hours, and even when you do that, you call thirty times to check on me."

Liz reached out a placating hand toward Blaine, "Sweetheart, it's not like that, it's—"

"It is exactly like that!" The plates rattled when Blaine slammed a fist down on the table, "You treat me like I'm some sort of fucking invalid!"

Everyone fell quiet for a moment; shocked into silence by Blaine's sudden vindictive fury.

"It's for safety, Blaine, you know we don't think you're not capable of taking care of yourself." John finally spoke; his voice calm.

"I suppose you taking me into the office is your way of showing me you trust me, right?" Blaine sneered.

"Blaine," Kurt spoke his name quietly; tried to sound soothing, "Where is this all coming from?"

Elizabeth frowned at Kurt, "Kurt, he can't help—"

Blaine rounded on his mother; glaring hard, "Maybe I can help it! Maybe I'm just really fucking pissed off right now!"

Elizabeth opened and closed her mouth; her expression stricken.

"Okay, you're angry," Kurt nodded, though he wasn't sure if it was true or not, "What upset you?"

"What upset me?" Blaine echoed; he let out a humorless laugh, "You're wondering what upset me?"

Kurt nodded mutely.

"Oh, I don't know, Kurt. Maybe it was that day back in June when I turned into everyone's burden, or maybe it was yesterday at the doctor's office when they messed up my test results and gave me good news that wasn't mine, or maybe it was watching another guy climb all over you today. Take your pick." Blaine suddenly shoved his way out of his chair; the legs scraping loud against the wood floor.

"Other guy?" Kurt stared up at Blaine in alarm, "What other guy?"

"What other guy?  _What other guy_?" Blaine was shouting; his voice tight and angry, "Are you fucking kidding me?"

Kurt wracked his brain, "Blaine, the only guys we saw today were Trip and Reese."

Blaine threw his arms in the air as though the answer were wildly obvious.

Kurt felt near tears, "Blaine, I don't… Reese? He's my friend; we work together."

"Oh my God _,_ Kurt,  _I'm_  the clueless one? Really?" Blaine tore his eyes away from Kurt's face and glared down at his nearly untouched dinner. He gripped the top of his chair so tightly, his knuckles turned a blotchy pink and white, "You can't be that fucking stupid."

"Blaine," Kurt tried to force a smile, "It's—I work with Reese, and it's  _me_ we're talking about. He'd never be interested in—"

"Of course he'd be interested!" Blaine's voice was so loud it made Kurt cringe, "Look at you! You're gorgeous and funny and talented and everything anyone could ever want! How could he  _not_ be?"

"Blaine, I—even if it was like that for him—I love  _you._ Only you—all those things you said; you're all those things t-to me," Kurt tried to force a smile, "Y-you're Blaine. To meet you is to love you."

Blaine's eyes suddenly shone with tears, and for a moment, Kurt was sure he'd gotten through to him. He reached out a hand and grazed his fingers lightly over Blaine's where they were still gripping the chair too tight, but Blaine recoiled as though Kurt had burned him. He turned on his heel and disappeared toward the family room.

Kurt stared at the space Blaine had just occupied; tried to wrap his mind around the mood change.

Elizabeth pulled the napkin off her lap and dropped it on the table before meeting John's eyes, "I knew those test results were going to get to him."

"You didn't tell me about any botched—"

Kurt wasn't listening to the Andersons; he was focused on the sound of the piano drifting out from the family room. He followed the music until he was standing right beside Blaine.

It was the same song as always, but too fast; too choppy. Blaine's fingers were harsh and clumsy. With every flubbed note, Kurt could see the tension in Blaine growing; shifting into something darker; heavier.

"Blaine, hey, it's okay. You've got yourself worked up and you're not even playing properly," Kurt reached out a hand to Blaine's shoulder; hoping to ease some of the tension, "Just—"

"Don't touch me." Blaine flinched away from the contact.

Kurt withdrew his hand, but tried again; this time sitting down on the bench beside Blaine, "... what about the bumblebees, Blaine?"

Blaine stared down at the piano keys; his expression dark, "I think you should leave."

Kurt froze with his hand halfway to Blaine's knee, "You—you want me to go?"

Blaine was quiet for a moment before nodding.

Kurt didn't move. He stared down at his knees and swallowed hard to keep what felt like an imminent sob at bay, "Blaine, it's… it's me; it's us."

"I'm not breaking up with you," Blaine snapped, but then his tone was quieter, "I just… I need you to go."

Kurt clenched his hands so tightly, his nails bit into the soft skin of his palms, "That's really all you want from me right now? To leave?"

"Yes." Blaine's voice was whisper quiet; his eyes still cast down to the piano.

Kurt took a breath, counted to three, and, on the exhale, pushed himself to his feet, "I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

Silence.

Kurt hesitated for only a moment before touching a soft kiss to the back of Blaine's head, "I love you."

He didn't want to wait and see if Blaine would respond. He fled the room, not even bothering to say goodbye to Blaine's parents. He needed to get out. Out of the room; out of the house; out of New Albany.

The drive back passed in a blur and suddenly he was stepping off of the elevator into the hall of the third floor; the smell of fresh paint thick in the air. He unlocked the door with numb fingers and stepped in.

David twisted around from his spot on the couch to smile at Kurt, "Hey, how's the boyfriend?"

Kurt let out a sharp, hollow sounding laugh, "Wonderful; just peachy. Blaine just happens to be trying to cover up the fact that he's coming apart at the seams, and then he decided today was a good day to tell me he hates me."

"He said he hated you?" Karofsky's eyes went wide.

"Not in so many words," Kurt threw his keys down on the table.

Bocelli put up a fuss—he hopped from one side of his cage to the other, chirping noisily.

"Shut up!" Kurt glared at the cage.

"Hey, don't take it out on the bird." David got up and threw a blanket over the cage. Almost immediately, the canary quieted.

Kurt stormed away toward his bedroom and slammed the door behind him as hard as he could. The walls rattled with the force and the picture on his nightstand clattered to the floor with a telltale crunch.

"Shit," Kurt crouched and lifted the frame. He turned it over in his hands and found Blaine's smiling face staring up at him from underneath a spidery web of cracked glass. He dropped the picture back down on the floor and shoved himself upright.

He paced his room—to the window, around the bed, almost into his closet—once, twice, three times… He let out a huff of frustration. He wanted to run; to move; to scream until he couldn't anymore.

Instead he pulled the calendar off of the wall and stormed back out to the family room.

David stood up from his place on the couch quickly.

"Sit. You're fine." Kurt snapped. He dropped down to the floor and hunched himself over the calendar; one hand flipped the months steadily from June to October; the other held an uncapped red pen.

Kurt heard the soft shift of the couch cushions as David slid back down into his spot, "…What're you doing?"

Kurt ignored him. He slid his fingers across the weeks; the indentation of the pen dipping beneath the pads of his fingers like sinkholes.

The week and a half leading up to October thirtieth were perfectly smooth. He sat with pen poised and closed his eyes.

"Bad day today?" David spoke quietly.

"No, the day was good… Really good." Kurt kept the pen uncapped, but drew his knees to his chest.

"Oh."

…

"Blaine got really upset at dinner," Kurt leaned his back into the front of the couch beside David's legs, "He made me leave."

"Ouch," David mumbled. He shifted awkwardly on the couch.

"Yeah… ouch," Kurt rubbed his temples.

David was quiet for another minute, "…Are you still crazy upset right now? Like you'll bite my head off if I say something?"

Kurt clenched his jaw for a moment, "No, David."

"…I know that feeling—the way you feel right now, I mean," David's voice was quiet, "That feeling like everything's fucked up and all you want to do is scream and run, but at the same time you just wanna lay down and never make another sound."

Kurt tore his eyes away from the calendar to look back at David, "…yeah…"

"It sucks… I'm sorry you feel like that," Karofsky blushed a little under Kurt's gaze and avoided his eyes, "… was Blaine's thing a—a cancer thing? Like when he got pissed with Trip a couple weeks ago when we went out to dinner?"

Kurt closed his eyes; replayed the past few hours in his head.

_Blaine kissing him and smelling like fallen leaves._

_Blaine singing in the car._

_Blaine smiling politely at Reese while Reese smiled at Kurt._

_Blaine looking distant_ _._

_Blaine listening to his parents talk about the gala._

_Blaine yelling._

_Blaine looking ready to cry._

Kurt opened his eyes and stared down at the calendar again. He recapped the red pen, "…I don't think so."

David allowed a small lapse of silence before he spoke again, "Are you still gonna go over there tomorrow?"

"If he'll let me," Kurt flipped back through the months in his calendar.

October through June were marked up with a slew of chemo reminders with a maze of arrows for changed days and swapped schedules; his exams marked in green ink under the blue that meant Blaine. He flipped back and back until color coded notes for doctor/exams/outbursts turned to Blaine/Glee/the girls/the family/school/the Warblers. Kurt felt a sudden ache in his chest, "I think I'm going to go call Rachel."

"Sorry I wasn't more helpful." David shrugged.

"No, Dave, you were great, I just… I need Rachel right now."

"It's cool; I get it," David shrugged again.

Kurt watched as David checked his phone and managed a small smile, "You're just trying to weasel your way out of talking about Trip staying over last night."

David looked up at him with a frown, but his cheeks were pink, "I thought you were calling Berry."

"I am," Kurt pushed himself up but turned to face David again when he got to his door, "We are going to talk about that, though."

"Whatever."

Kurt smiled a little before closing the door and lying down on his bed, his phone cradled against one ear.

The phone rang once…twice…three times…four…five times…six…

"—Hello?"

"Hi. I thought I was going to be sent to voicemail there for a second." Kurt stared down at the picture frame still on the floor.

"Sorry; busy, busy, busy, you know," Rachel spoke breathlessly, "Have you seen Blaine today?"

Kurt closed his eyes; swallowed, "Yes…why?"

"He missed our Skype date! He never misses!" Kurt jerked the phone away from his ear at the sound of Rachel's near-shout.

"He's in a bad mood."

"All the more reason for him to Skype with me!" Rachel huffed, "If he had taken even five minutes to just boot up his computer and talk to me, I'm sure I could have had him smiling. I sent him the same exercise and meal plan I sent you. A healthy lifestyle can be the first component of a happy outlook on—"

"He kicked me out of his house tonight."

"What? Why? Is he okay?"

Kurt swallowed and blinked hard, "I… I don't know what happened, Rach. He seemed like he was doing so well. We hang out, he goes to work, he's been going to some sort of new therapy thing that he says he likes, but then tonight at dinner he just—he snapped. It was like all of the sudden he was so angry about everything… he wouldn't even let me touch him."

Rachel was quiet.

"No sage advice from the queen of everything?" Kurt rolled onto his back and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"He's going to have his moments. He's sick and he's tired and he's—," Rachel paused, "he asked me not to say anything to you, but… he's always terrified he's holding you back. He's insecure, Kurt."

"Rachel, it's Blaine. He's a ball of charm and sunshine and talent wrapped up in a painfully attractive package of dreamy eyes and smiles," Kurt sighed, "He doesn't  _do_ insecure."

"He also doesn't have control of some of what he says, is fighting off cancer, and is losing his hair. Call me crazy, but even I would be a little insecure if all of that was happening to me."

"He's still… he's Blaine." Kurt repeated as though that somehow made up for it. It had to, didn't it? Skinnier and with less hair, yes, but… still Blaine.

Rachel laughed, but it sounded sad, "To you, yes. But what about to him? Can you imagine feeling like you didn't know yourself anymore?"

"You think that's what it is?" Kurt didn't need an answer from her. Of course that's what it was. Blaine had lost his grip on himself and the memory of laughing, smiling, everyone's-favorite-Warbler Blaine was growing dimmer and dimmer while Kurt idled in place beside him.

Rachel was talking, but Kurt could barely hear her.

"…Why didn't I think of that?" Kurt whispered, "I'm his boyfriend…I should have known. I should have figured it out."

"Kurt, you can't see it  _because_  you're his boyfriend," Kurt could almost see Rachel smiling, "You see him as the same person no matter what. Your job is to make him see that person, too."

Kurt sniffled and wiped at his eyes, "I think New York is doing something to you, Rachel. You never gave this good of advice when you were in Ohio."

"That's because New York has taught me a few too many lessons too fast," Rachel sighed, "It's a tougher crowd than I expected out here… Luckily, Quinn is my harshest critic, so the comments I get from casting directors feel a little nicer."

Kurt laughed feebly, "Still no luck with auditions?"

"None of them have been able to fit my particular brand of talent, that's all," Rachel sniffed, "You just wait, though, some brilliant producer is going to decide he needs the raw talent of an up and coming young star and once he finds me, everything will fall into place exactly the way it's supposed to."

"Until that dream part comes along, promise me you'll be willing to try for slightly less ambitious roles?"

Rachel sighed loudly, "I've done two shows already for a children's theatre. It's degrading."

"It's also paying part of your rent."

"I have an audition to prepare for and, judging by your sass, you're feeling better, so if you don't mind, I have to go." Rachel snapped.

"I promise to come see you the second you get a role as either headlining actress or Woman at Market Number Three, okay?" Kurt smiled weakly.

"I'll save you a spot front and center… or ask nicely if I can reserve you a spot somewhere in the theater if I don't have as much swing with the production." Rachel laughed.

Kurt sighed, "I miss you, Rachel."

"I miss you, too… New York isn't quite what I imagined it to be without you. Next year though, right? Are you still marking the countdown on your calendar?"

_No._ "Yeah."

"Good," Rachel hummed happily, "As for Blaine… when Finn got upset and tried to push me away, I always found that pushing back even harder usually got him to let me in. Don't give up on him."

"I wouldn't; I won't," Kurt's eyes drifted down to the frame on the floor again, "Thanks for talking to me, Rachel."

"Talking's what I'm best at. Call me tomorrow and let me know how things go?"

"Sure; good luck with the audition. I'll talk to you later." Kurt dropped the phone down on the bed and crossed the room to pick up the picture frame.

He lay back down and brushed a thumb over the picture. The nerves in the pad of his thumb complained when the skin snagged on the crushed glass, but Kurt ignored it.

He heard the quiet click of the front door opening and closing out in the main room of the apartment. He strained his ears and made out the faint low notes of a conversation—David's quiet laugh; the soft notes of someone else's voice; the floor creaking beneath feet that were attempting to be quiet—finally, he heard the soft creak of David's bedroom door closing and he felt the inexplicable and overwhelming need to cry.

He rested the picture on his nightstand and got up to turn off the lights. He didn't care that it was going to be another night of no hair or skin routines. He pulled the ratty Joe Boxer pajama pants out of his nightstand drawer and slid them on over his legs before climbing into his bed.

The apartment was silent—painfully so.

Kurt tossed and turned and finally pulled his phone out. He clicked through his contacts, and opened a blank text, not sure what he was going to say until it was done. When he replaced his phone on the nightstand, the MESSAGE SENT screen still bright in the dark of the room, he finally felt the soft pull of sleep on his eyes and mind. Tomorrow; he'd make things better tomorrow, but for now, a text would have to suffice.

' _I don't want this moment to ever end._

_Where everything's nothing without you._

_I want you to know, with everything I won't let this go._

_These words are my heart and soul,_

_I hold on to this moment you know._

_Cause I'd bleed my heart out to show, and I won't let go._

…  _I know you probably don't want to talk tonight, but I can't sleep without saying something to you first. If cheesy song lyrics don't spell it out enough, I just wanted to say you take my breath away every single day. Sweet dreams. I love you.'_


	27. Chapter 24, Pt. 2

Kurt woke before his alarm but lay in his bed long after it went off. He had dreamed colors all night; bright, translucent, ethereal shades that slid into his mouth and nose and under the beds of his fingernails and seeped through his pores until he was filled with the whole spectrum of them. He felt rested and restless all at once.

He pulled his phone off of his nightstand and pulled up Elizabeth's number. He contemplated calling, but opted for a text instead. It was cleaner; less room for debate.

_I'm still coming over tonight to stay with Blaine. Call if you need me to come earlier. –Kurt_

He put his phone back down and busied himself getting ready for the day. He hummed the fragments of a song stuck in his head as he padded between his bedroom and the bathroom and while he watched the slow drip of his coffee brewing. He wasn't surprised when he heard the quiet open and shut of David's door, "There's oatmeal in the cupboard to the left of the stove."

Trip appeared at his side to watch the coffee pot, too, "Got anything a little more on-the-go friendly?"

"There's apples in the refrigerator." Kurt murmured.

"Florence and the Machine?"

"Huh?" Kurt finally turned his head to blink at Trip.

"What you were humming," Trip clarified.

"Oh…yeah." Kurt nodded, "…if you don't want an apple, I have granola bars, too."

Trip bent low and rested his hands on his knees to stare into the coffee pot, "You're going to drink that?"

"I'm going to try to." Kurt smiled faintly.

Trip wrinkled his nose and straightened up. He went to the fridge and pulled out an apple, "Grab your jacket."

Kurt tore his gaze away from the slow drip of the coffee, "Why?"

"I'll buy you a real coffee, come on," Trip leaned over to smile in at Bocelli in his cage before snagging his keys off of the table and heading toward the door.

"Trip, I—" He what? With Blaine's sudden coldness, he had nowhere to be until six, "…just give me a second to put my shoes on."

"Well hurry it up," Trip glanced toward David's door.

Trip picked out a coffee shop just off the Ohio State campus. It was nothing like the Lima Bean. It felt like someone's living room. None of the couches and chairs matched and there were only about three rickety little tables shoved haphazardly into the space.

Kurt didn't object when Trip selected one such table tucked in a back corner for them to sit at. He gazed around at the art on the walls; the painted ceiling tiles.

"Students take them home and paint them," Trip tipped his head up to look at the ceiling, too, "Cool, huh?"

Kurt gazed around at the tiles, "You've been here before?"

"A few times; my leash has been getting a little longer the past couple months." Trip smiled and took a drink from his coffee cup.

Kurt rubbed a thumb over the etched names in the table, "Call me crazy, but this doesn't exactly look like a Warbler hang out."

"I don't bring them here. I come by myself," Trip motioned a hand at Kurt's cup, "Way better than that shit you were trying to brew at home, right?"

Kurt turned his cup around in his hands, "Yes, thanks… can I ask you a question?"

"I don't bring David because getting coffee with someone you're fucking implies you're dong more than fucking."

"…Not the question I was going to ask, but thank you for the info," Kurt frowned, "Why are you being so nice this morning?"

"I'm not a bad guy. I'm just kind of an ass." Trip shrugged.

"Buying someone coffee isn't exactly asshole behavior."

"I wasn't always a bitter, jaded person," Trip clutched a hand over his heart, "I was once a weepy, starry-eyed little thing, too."

"Everyone was like that once," Kurt inhaled the earthy smell of coffee rising off of his cup, "We all just modify the belief in different ways."

Trip studied Kurt's somber face, "David's a bit of a pillow talker… he said Blaine flipped his shit at you yesterday."

Kurt nodded, "He just needs… I'm not sure… he just needs  _something_."

"We all need something," Trip stated solemnly but then broke into a grin, "Doesn't that sound like the sort of existential bullshit people talk about in places like this?"

Kurt smiled despite himself and took another drink from his cup.

Trip fiddled with the sleeve around his own cup; picked at the seam, "Dave also mentioned the shit he pulled with you back in high school…"

"And?"

Trip shrugged, "I don't know; and nothing, just saying is all… the man has some serious demons with all that."

"I know…" Kurt raised an eyebrow, "Aren't these the sort of things people get concerned with when they're dating?"

Trip scowled, "No."

Kurt dropped the subject and turned his attention to watching the few other patrons sitting around the coffee shop, "Blaine would like this place."

"Yeah, he would," an amused smile crossed Trip's mouth.

"…You never actually answered my question earlier about why you're suddenly so sweet."

"Not sweet. Never sweet," Trip made a face, "If it'll redeem my title, I'll dump my drink on your head and then leave you here."

"Unnecessary; I still think you're a prick with a filthy mouth," Kurt smiled, "Why is that, though?"

"Why's what?"

"Why are you so mean?"

"I'm a grumpy old man."

"You're a senior in high school."

"I'll be nineteen next month."

Kurt nearly choked on his coffee, "What?"

"Royal fuck up from the ages of sixteen through about eighteen, remember? I got held back a year," Trip took a drink from his cup.

Kurt hesitated for a moment before asking the question that had been nagging at him for months, "… Why'd you do the stuff you did?"

Trip laughed hollowly, "Which stuff?"

"All of it; any of it," Kurt searched Trip's face.

Trip sat back in his chair; chewed at his lip, "… I did it because I didn't want to hurt anymore... you push everything away and get yourself numb enough, life isn't very livable, but it's bearable."

"Bearable," Kurt echoed. He studied Trip's face and suddenly felt horribly sad for him,"…what happened to you, Trip?"

"I'm afraid you're out of questions for the day, Hummel, now I've got a few of my own." Trip leaned his elbows on the table.

Kurt sighed, "Fine."

"Why'd you agree to come to coffee with me today?"

"Because I needed to keep my head busy for awhile," Kurt confessed, he was decent enough to blush for essentially using Trip, "… but this has been nicer than I expected."

Trip nodded absently, "I've got another one."

"Proceed." Kurt smiled.

"How'd you ever get in so deep with Blaine?"

Kurt frowned, "What do you mean? Me staying here with him?"

"That's part of it… I mean everything you two do... I mean the fact that you two have whole conversations when we're all hanging out by just looking at each other," Trip fiddled with his cup, "How does that happen?"

Kurt felt something ache in his chest. He wondered if it would be too much if he were to go straight to Blaine's once Trip dropped him off back at his apartment, "We just… I love him. He loves me."

"It can't be that simple," Trip looked disgruntled, "Nothing's that simple."

Kurt thought of Blaine. Screaming, furious, hurting,  _I-think-you-should-go_ Blaine, "…what if it is?"

"If it's that easy, you wouldn't be sitting here with me looking like someone shot your dog," Trip put his cup down a little too forcefully, "He kicked you out yesterday, remember?"

"We just… we work for us everyday, Trip, and some days are harder than others," Kurt traced a thumb over a name engraved in the table, "Love's just what makes you willing to put up the fight."

Trip looked sullen, "Sounds exhausting."

"It's worth it."

Trip sighed but offered no other comment.

They finished their coffees in silence.

Trip pulled the lid off of his coffee cup and stared down into the bottom, "…You still going over there tonight?"

Kurt nodded.

"Have you talked to him since yesterday?"

"I sent him a text. He hasn't responded, but I wasn't expecting him to."

Trip smiled faintly, "You're something else, you know that?... Don't tell anyone I said that."

"Our secret," Kurt slipped his jacket off the back of his chair and over his arms, "…and as long as we're divulging classified info… I don't always want to punch you in the face… only sometimes."

Trip put a hand over his heart and collapsed back into his chair, "Oh, stop, you're just saying that."

"This is one of the times when I kind of want to hit you." Kurt rolled his eyes and got up.

"Fair enough," Trip followed Kurt out the door to the car, "I'll tell you what, keep feeding me breakfast, and I'll promise one free shot for whenever you choose."

"I don't need your permission to hit you."

"Yeah, but you  _do_  need a guarantee to keep me from hitting you back." Trip paused outside the door and pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket.

"I would have stayed inside if I thought you were going to smoke." Kurt rolled his eyes.

Trip pulled one cigarette out of the pack and tucked it in his pocket before dropping the pack in the garbage can beside the door.

"Am I witnessing you quitting smoking?" Kurt raised an eyebrow.

"Cutting back at least," Trip shrugged, "…not good for my voice."

"Good call." Kurt made a mental note to ask David how he felt about the smell of cigarette smoke.

When they arrived back at the apartment building, Kurt climbed out of the car, but leaned back in through the open door, "Are you sure you don't want to come back in?"

Trip laughed, "I make it a strict rule not to come over unless there's sex involved or I have Blaine in tow."

"I think Dave would like it if you stayed."

Trip's smile slipped, "I doubt that."

"Why?"

"You can choose to get your feet run over when I leave right now or you can take a step back, Hummel; your pick."

Kurt sighed, "Fine. Thanks for the coffee."

Trip nodded, "Don't get used to it; I just felt sorry for you today."

Kurt rolled his eyes, "Right. I'll see you Monday morning bright and early, I'm sure."

"Maybe," Trip returned the smile, "See ya."

"Drive safe."

"Sure thing, Mom." Trip made a face.

Kurt shut the door and jumped back quickly to avoid having his toes run over when Trip peeled out of the lot.

He watched the car disappear down the road before turning and going inside.

David was awake and eating breakfast at the kitchen table, dressed in a suit shirt, and whistling at Bocelli. He smiled when he saw Kurt, "Hey, where'd you go?"

"Coffee with Trip," Kurt took the chair across from David and looked over his outfit, "I have a tie that you can wear that'll look way better than the one you have on."

"Thanks," David glanced down at his shirt and back up at Kurt, "…you got coffee with Trip?"

Kurt nodded, "We really need to invest in a new coffeepot. Ours brews sludge."

David nodded but he looked distracted.

Kurt watched him curiously, "Would you be interested in getting coffee with him?"

David shrugged, "It's not really how our thing's been going. He gets weird about that stuff… our thing is… it works how it is."

Kurt nodded, "...can I ask you a question?"

David shrugged.

"Does the smell of cigarette smoke bother you?"

"I'm kind of getting used to it, but, honestly, yeah it does," David blushed, "Why?"

Kurt smiled to himself, "No reason; just wondering."

David looked back down at his breakfast, "...you seem like you're in a better mood than last night."

"I'm getting there." Kurt rested his chin in his hand and watched Bocelli through the gold bars of his cage.

"Do you know what you're gonna do about Blaine yet?"

Kurt smiled faintly, "Love him. Like I always have."

"I meant tonight more specifically."

"I'll know what to do when I get there," Kurt stuck his pinkie through the bars of the birdcage and tried to get Bocelli's attention.

"Not much of a game plan, Hummel." David picked up his plate and moved toward the kitchen.

Kurt smiled when Bocelli finally came over to peck at his finger, "It's the best plan I have."

* * *

Kurt resisted every impulse to leave early for New Albany. He quelled the desire to buy treats, flowers, or any other sort of peace offering that came to mind. He showed up on the Andersons doorstep at exactly six as promised with empty hands. He glanced down at the bowl of candy already placed beside his feet on the porch.

As soon as John opened the door and ushered him in, Kurt could feel the tension in the house. Elizabeth stood beside her husband looking anxious and tired. Blaine was nowhere to be seen.

"What's wrong?" Kurt met Elizabeth's eyes with a frown.

"Blaine's… painting," John supplied when his wife didn't answer. His suit was immaculate—the collar neatly starched; the lines perfectly tailored to his body.

Kurt looked between them, "Why is that a bad thing?"

"It started out with painting on paper…" John looked up the stairs, "but apparently that wasn't a big enough canvas. He's moved onto the walls."

"He yelled when we tried to stop him," Elizabeth finally spoke up, "…so I spread out some old sheets and newspaper and we just let him go at it."

"Do you want me to try and stop him?" Kurt silently willed them to say no. It was going to be a long night if he had to deal with an even more pissed off Blaine than what he was expecting.

"No," Elizabeth spoke for both of them; finally tearing her eyes away from the stairs, "I think he needs this… you'll see when you get up there."

"Try to keep him contained to his room though," John offered a shadow of smile before frowning, "If you'd rather not be left alone—"

"We'll be fine; at least he's using his feelings for something constructive." Kurt tried to laugh, but it sounded hollow. He looked over the navy blue silk of Elizabeth's dress, "And a dress like that can't go to waste. I have both of your numbers if something happens, and Trip's twenty minutes away."

Elizabeth sighed, "I feel like we're leaving him with a babysitter like we used to when he was a little boy."

"Except you don't have to pay me at the end of the night and I'm assuming you didn't leave a note telling me his bedtime and what channels he can't watch on TV."

John looked almost guilty, "But we did leave you forty dollars if you two want to order pizza."

"I'll make sure to get him to bed by nine and tell him he can't watch Spongebob on Nickelodeon then," Kurt smiled fully, "You're already half an hour late, go ahead. We'll be more than fine. We always are."

Elizabeth slipped on her coat, apparently convinced, "Thank you, Kurt, we should be home no later than ten tomorrow, but remember you don't have to hesitate to call if—"

"I know. There won't be any problems," Kurt walked with them toward the laundry room, but halted Elizabeth with a hand on her arm, "Wait."

She paused; her expression anxious, "Do you need—"

"No, no, just hold still for a second," Kurt stepped behind her and reached for the back of her necklace, "May I?"

"Of course," she pushed her hair over her shoulder.

Kurt undid the clasp and reattached it lower on the little chain of metal loops. He moved back around front to survey the results, "Perfect."

Elizabeth looked down at the diamond pendant where it now hung closer to the neckline of her dress.

"Sorry for the intrusion, but with that dress and that necklace, you deserve to have everything look exactly right," Kurt nodded assuredly.

Elizabeth touched a hand to his arm, leaned in, and kissed his cheek, "Thank you, Kurt."

He flushed red at the sudden contact, "Have a nice time."

He waited until they were pulled out of the garage to shut the door against the cold air and move back toward the stairs.

"Blaine?" He called his name softly as he made his way toward the door.

Blaine didn't answer.

Kurt pushed open the bedroom door and raised an eyebrow. He spied the oversized paper pad draped across the desk. The top sheet was covered in a blur of tempera paint and fat marker lines, but the paint was dry and already flaking from the top. Newspaper crinkled beneath his feet as he stepped further into the room to survey the walls. It was really only the one wall behind the desk, as though as soon as he finished with the paper, Blaine had simply taken a step to the right and continued on against the cream colored paint.

"Brushing up on our artistry skills?" Kurt turned his attention to the sole other occupant of the room.

Blaine's hands were covered in paint; layer upon layer of color drying against the white of his skin. His mouth was set in a frown and a knot of concentration furrowed his eyebrows. He didn't answer.

Kurt plucked a brush from the desk and moved closer to Blaine; he twirled the brush between his fingers with a smile, "You didn't want to use this?"

"I can't hold onto it." Blaine replied flatly; his fingers traced a careful streak down the wall that Kurt assumed was meant to remain straight. It followed the tremor of his hand; loud, spastic spots hiccupping out from the smooth path. He let out a disgusted grunt in the back of his throat.

Kurt watched him for a while, "What are you painting?"

Blaine didn't answer him. The tendons in his neck were tight; his arm stiff as he started again. His left hand remained limp at his side; a piece of yellow legal paper peaking out from the edges of his closed fist.

Kurt touched the edge of the paper gingerly, "Can I see what this is?"

Blaine didn't look away from the wall, but his grip on the paper loosened enough for Kurt to pull the sheet loose from his grasp.

Kurt stepped away and sat down on the edge of the bed. He smoothed the paper across his lap to study it. It was someone else's handwriting; neat, smooth loops on the l's and d's and i's.

_Blaine Anderson_

_Headache_

_Tired_

_Help_

"Are these from your speech pathologist?" Kurt asked, skimming over the list, "For when you lose words?"

Blaine gave a stiff nod.

Kurt scanned the list until his eyes halted on a second series of words. It wasn't the same neat handwriting. It was shaky and dark; the marker had bled against the paper on the 't', but then it was written over and over again.

_Kurt Hummel_

_Kurt Hummel_

_Kurt Hummel_

_I love Kurt_

_I love you_

_Kurt_

Kurt clenched his teeth hard when he felt the familiar sting of tears at the corners of his eyes. Rachel may have been right about some of Blaine's insecurities, but this wasn't just Blaine worrying over competition or being vain. This was Blaine being plagued by something; something dark and twisty and frightening that kept him up at night.

Kurt looked back up at Blaine's back and suddenly he could discern the shapes on the wall. A shaky B; half of a K abandoned when it got too sloppy. Kurt put the paper down and reached down to his shirt. He slipped it off over his head and folded it neatly on the bed before moving back over to Blaine. He stood behind him and watched quietly for a moment before reaching up to Blaine's shoulder. He stroked the soft skin beside his collar, and murmured in his ear, "Get more paint."

Blaine didn't look at him, but he complied. He reached over to an open jar and dipped his fingers into it. They dripped baby blue in spackled streaks across an old sheet below their feet as he raised it back up to the wall.

Kurt caught a hold of his wrist and guided it slowly down in a neat line and then around in two perfect arcs until a fat letter B stared back at them from the wall. He kissed Blaine's shoulder, "Perfect."

Blaine's back relaxed against Kurt's chest.

"Why not just paint a picture then like before?" Kurt wrapped his arms around Blaine's middle. He wanted to hold onto him—the soft, sad, tired Blaine. He wanted to keep him present; twined between his fingers where that awful, screaming irrational Blaine couldn't fit; couldn't slide, oil slick, into Blaine's place and spit his venom and ugly reminders of what was creeping around inside Blaine's head.

But, thankfully, it was only tired, sick Blaine that stared hard at the paint on the wall, "I forget words and… and they don't come back sometimes… the speech therapist thought it might help if I can write them…cueing hierarchy…"

"You remember cueing hierarchy but not Blaine?" Kurt teased lightly.

"It's not what I don't remember…" Blaine's hands came down to squeeze Kurt's forearms, "…it's what I'm afraid of forgetting."

"You're not all cancer, remember? It's not going to take over everything, Blaine," Kurt could feel paint from Blaine's hands drying against his skin—making it tight and unnatural in a thin layer of crusting baby blue, "It's just one piece of you, and it isn't permanent."

"It doesn't feel that way anymore, Kurt," Blaine's shoulders sagged even more.

Kurt unwrapped his arms from around Blaine's middle; the paint shifting wrong against his skin as he moved, "Come here."

Blaine followed him over to the desk.

"Give me your hand," Kurt held his palm open until Blaine complied. He wrapped his hand delicately around Blaine's wrist and dipped his fingers in a jar. Purple this time, thick and heavy. It dripped lazy threads down Blaine's wrist as Kurt guided him back to the wall.

"What're you doing?" Blaine frowned when Kurt took a hold of his wrist again.

"Shh," Kurt guided Blaine's fingers and orchestrated a smooth set of lines. When the slick glide of Blaine's fingers against the wall dulled to a slower grate and the thick purple streaks bubbled with untouched white, Kurt dipped two of his own fingers in the open jar. He slid his fingers in languorous, easy strokes through the cool, slow drag of it and decided he liked the feel. He slid a third finger in and twirled his fingers in lazy circles until paint was nearly staining his palm.

Dripping trails as he went, Kurt moved away from the desk to recoat Blaine's hand in heavy streaks of violet until his fingers were glistening wet again and the pink of his skin was immersed even deeper below the drying layers of paint. Slowly, the letters formed—erratic in places and the paint spackled with a million unwanted shades that chipped off Blaine's hands and mixed with the rest, but all legible.

When it was finished, Kurt kept his hand wrapped around Blaine's. He smiled over his shoulder, "There."

Blaine's eyes drifted over the message, "Kurt loves Blaine."

"I do." There was a smudge of orange paint on Blaine's neck. He pressed a kiss below it.

Blaine turned his head and Kurt was surprised to see his eyes suddenly swimming with tears, "I wasn't angry at you yesterday; I didn't mean to be cruel."

"You weren't," Kurt shook his head quickly; tangled his fingers between Blaine's.

"I was," Blaine shook his head; blinked hard, "I was upset. I got jealous over something stupid—Reese isn't even a bad guy, he just—I know you wouldn't ever-but I didn't… I—I have this recurring nightmare and I feel like I don't even know who I am anymore and it all was getting so heavy and I… I just snapped. I'm sorry, Kurt; I'm s-so sorry."

Kurt let Blaine twist around fully to face him, "What's the nightmare about? Is it the same one you were having a few weeks ago?"

"No, this one's worse," Blaine swallowed hard, "You're there, but your back's to me, and I try to call for you, but…"

Blaine's eyes searched his desperately. Kurt stroked a hand down Blaine's cheek; left a muddy trail of purple in his fingers' wake, "But what?"

"But I can't remember your name. I forget. I forget and you walk away and—" The tears came fast; blending purple and orange and blue on Blaine's cheeks; making sunset colored blurs against his jaw line, "I don't want to forget, Kurt, I'm s-so scared I'm g-going to forget."

Kurt couldn't stop his own tears, but he pressed both hands into the sides of Blaine's face, "Look at me."

Blaine's shoulders shook and his eyes swam honey and hazel, the colors wavering beneath unshed tears like watercolor prepared to bleed from the page.

"If you forget my name it's okay," Kurt stroked his thumb over Blaine's cheek. He reached down and pressed Blaine's hands against his own face, "In the dream, you knew it was me, right?"

Blaine's hands pressed in tighter against Kurt's cheeks as though he feared him melting from beneath his fingertips. He nodded shakily.

"You won't forget me, okay?" Kurt pressed his hands over Blaine's, "You won't; it doesn't even work that way."

"But what if I do?" Blaine choked on the words, "I shouldn't be losing feeling in my foot and I shouldn't h-have gotten sick at all, so who's to s-say I won't lose this too? Who's t-to say I won't forget you?"

"Then I'll remind you until you remember," Kurt swallowed hard; tried not to let his voice waver, "I love you; I won't walk away, Blaine. Not ever."

Blaine searched his eyes for a fleeting second before pressing a hard kiss to his mouth. His hands slid down to Kurt's waist and he pressed another kiss against his cheek; his forehead, "If I can't walk or talk or see or anything else, I just want to remember you. That's all I want, that's all—"

Kurt caught his mouth in a desperate kiss because he couldn't hear it anymore; he needed to make it better. Kiss away the tears and the hurt and the cancer; smother all those awful words and ideas with kisses and touches. He caught Blaine's mouth in another kiss and pressed his fingers in hard to his sides; pulled his body in as close as he could get it, "You're not going to forget. I won't let you forget."

Blaine's hands pulled at Kurt's undershirt, leaving messy handprints against the fabric as he worked it up his back. They parted just long enough for him to pull it over his head and abandon it to the floor before their mouths crashed back together. They melted to the floor together in a tangle of limbs and paint and hungry kisses.

Kurt was nearly blinded with how much he wanted it—wanted to suffocate sickness and mental poison until he was nothing but hormones and blood and nerves responding to rough fingers against his skin; God, he wanted that so horribly. But this wasn't the way it was supposed to be. Not desperate and panicked and frenzied like they wouldn't ever again. No. This was wrong. Kurt pulled away from Blaine's mouth, panting for breath.

Blaine tried to catch his neck and pull him back in, but Kurt maintained the distance; shook his head, "Shh, slow down; we have time."

"Kurt—" Blaine tried again, unsuccessfully, to pull Kurt back down to him.

"It's okay," Kurt assured him, "Sit up."

Blaine complied slowly; pushed himself up awkwardly.

Kurt touched a gentle kiss to his mouth; his shoulder. He worked Blaine's shirt up slowly, but then Blaine was catching his wrist. Kurt met his eyes and tried to smile, "A minute ago this was what you wanted."

"I do want it," Blaine mumbled; his fingers flexed against the bones of Kurt's wrist, "I just… maybe we could turn off the light…"

Kurt slid his hand under Blaine's shirt; felt the harsh lines of his spine beneath tight skin, "We've never had a problem with leaving the light on."

Blaine's eyes flickered hopelessly to the switch on the wall before sliding back to focus on a frayed hole in the sheet below their knees.

Kurt followed his gaze but then looked back to the open paint jars on the desk, "…will you do something with me?"

Blaine looked back at him; nodded.

Kurt stood and retrieved a jar of red and the paintbrush before kneeling back in front of Blaine, "Take your shirt off."

Blaine hesitated; his fingers toying with the hem of his t-shirt.

"Please?" Kurt stroked a hand across the warm skin of Blaine's neck; let his thumb snag under the collar of his shirt and rest there for a moment.

Blaine's fingers hooked under the edge of his t-shirt, and slowly, gently, he coaxed it up over his stomach; his chest; his shoulders. He struggled with it for a moment when the neck caught on his ears and then it was off; pooling in a heap of cotton beside him. He looked toward the light switch longingly again.

Kurt traced a thumb over the harsh line of his collarbone; touched a kiss to it, "Hold out your hand."

Blaine hesitated; his eyes still avoiding Kurt's.

Kurt traced his hand around to the back of Blaine's neck, "Hey, look at me."

Blaine met his gaze almost nervously.

"Trust me," Kurt smiled.

Blaine nodded and held out his hand.

Kurt dropped his hand from Blaine's neck and picked of the paintbrush. He dipped it into the paint before coating Blaine's hand carefully. He covered his fingers; filled the creases of his palm. When everything was stained red, he took hold of Blaine's wrist, "Put your hand on me."

"Where?" Blaine murmured; his eyes flickering over Kurt's skin.

"You know where." Kurt put the brush down and waited; his eyes fixed on Blaine's face.

Blaine spread his fingers; pressed his palm against Kurt's heart.

Kurt lifted the brush and painted over his own palm before pressing it to Blaine's chest. He pulled it away carefully; smiled at the neat handprint, "There."

Blaine pulled his own hand away slowly. He studied the print on his own chest before meeting Kurt's eyes with a small smile, "Perfect."

Kurt slid a hand around Blaine's neck, leaned in closer, "…perfect…"

_And it's peaceful in the deep,_

_Cathedral where you cannot breathe,_

_No need to pray, no need to speak_

_Now I am under._

_Oh, and it's breaking over me,_

_A thousand miles down to the seabed,_

_I found the place to rest my head._

_Never let me go, never let me go._

_Never let me go, never let me go._

Kurt loved kissing Blaine; he could kiss him for hours, for days _;_ for _ever._

The windows of his car were foggy—the cold November air outside almost foreign compared to the tropical, humid interior of the Navigator. He pulled away long enough to take in a quick breath before crushing his mouth back against Blaine's. Yeah, he could do this forever… except the gearshift was pressing into his stomach every time he leaned forward, and the console was proving to be a pesky obstacle to his attempts to press himself closer to his boyfriend.

The heel of Blaine's hand slipped on the edge of the cup holder and his teeth clicked against Kurt's. He grinned against Kurt's mouth, "Sorry."

"Mm, don't be," Kurt tangled his fingers in the dark hair on the back of Blaine's head to try and coax him back in for another kiss, but Blaine maintained the small space. Kurt looked up from his lips to his eyes, "What?"

"This isn't working," Blaine smiled.

"Sure it is, we just have to ignore a few details," Kurt tried to catch his breath during the (what he hoped would be) short break.

"The gearshift is going to impale one of us," Blaine glanced toward the windshield, "Lets go inside."

"I can't go inside; the other guys—"

"I have a single room; there are no other guys; you know that," Blaine gave him a devilish grin.

Kurt hesitated, "Your R.A. will skin us alive if he finds out I'm here."

"We're talking about the same R.A. who knows I leave campus on a regular basis and never says a word," Blaine reached up and adjusted the fallen shoulder of Kurt's cardigan; his fingers traced its edge down to his chest, "But just in case, we can be very, very sneaky."

Kurt eyed Blaine's mouth before nodding, "Okay… fine; but if we get caught—"

"I will bodily throw myself at my R.A. while you escape," Blaine mimed crossing his heart.

Kurt snorted and climbed from his car into the chilly night air and hurried toward the front doors, Blaine's fingers laced in his. Blaine stopped them short of the door and looked up into the sky with a grin.

"Snow!" Blaine laughed; he closed his eyes against the snowflakes that landed on his face and melted against the heat of his skin.

Kurt shivered and stepped in closer to Blaine, "It's too early for snow."

Blaine tilted his chin back down to smile at Kurt, "It's almost December, and it is never too early for snow."

"It's freezing," Kurt whined, "If it's this cold now, think how awful it's going to be in February."

Blaine pulled Kurt's hands to his mouth and blew a hot breath against his fingers, "I'll just have to work extra hard to keep you warm then, won't I?"

"How about you start by getting me inside?" Kurt giggled and shoved Blaine toward the doors.

Blaine swiped his keycard and pulled Kurt in after him. They silently tiptoed up the stairs and past closed doors to Blaine's room. The second the door clicked shut behind them, Blaine whirled around and cupped Kurt's face in his hands; pressed his back to the closed door. Kurt felt around and turned the lock quickly before pressing back against Blaine; his hands pulling him in even closer.

He'd been so frightened before he and Blaine had been together that when the time came for passionate moments he wouldn't know what to do; that he'd freeze up; that he'd do something wrong and freak out his boyfriend, but that had never been the case. Being with Blaine was as natural as inhaling and exhaling. When Blaine's tongue begged entrance into his mouth, he kissed him back just as passionately; a thrill running up his spine every time Blaine let out a moan that tingled against his lips and sent fire racing through his veins. Even his hands had worked on their own accord—unbuttoning and touching and groping like they already knew how. They were currently doing just that—dragging down Blaine's back, cupping his ass and pulling his hips in closer; an action Kurt could never have dreamt of himself performing in his pre-Blaine days, let alone sliding his hand down those tight jeans or falling to his knees anticipating the feel of Blaine's fingers tangling in his hair and the taste of him in his mouth.

Kurt worked his knee between Blaine's legs and pressed them deeper into the room. Blaine's breath hitched against Kurt's mouth and he rocked his hips in closer to Kurt's leg with a groan. Kurt dragged his hands up the length of Blaine's torso; he pushed his shirt up his back and over his head as they stumbled backwards. Blaine's knees caught on the edge of the bed and, when he fell backwards onto the mattress, he pulled Kurt down with him. Blaine's hands pushed almost desperately at his shirt; fumbling with cardigan buttons and tugging at the soft cotton shirt underneath. When he freed both shirt and sweater from Kurt's arms, he threw them carelessly over the side of the bed. He hooked a leg behind Kurt's back and rolled him over until he was pinned to the mattress. Kurt loved Blaine like this, all groping hands and demanding kisses and wanton moans. Aggressive and feverish in his want for more Kurt beneath his fingertips; locked to his mouth; pinned beneath his body. Kurt groaned when Blaine rolled his hips against his. Blaine's teeth grazed Kurt's jaw; smooth pearl edges grazing his skin as he spoke, "Kurt?"

"Mmm?" Kurt mumbled; the fog in his mind was as thick as it had been on the windows of his car.

"I want…" Blaine trailed off. He found the hollow between Kurt's neck and sternum and dipped his tongue into the soft curve; worked his way to the delicate skin of his throat, "I want to see you."

"You have seen me," Kurt turned his head, exposing a new stretch of skin to Blaine's wandering mouth.

" _All_  of you… At once," Blaine murmured, finally bringing his face up to meet Kurt's gaze, eyes shining warm even in the cold dark blues and dusky shadows of the room.

Kurt hesitated. If every encounter were added up, Blaine had probably seen just about every inch of his body at some point or another, but there was something about being fully naked that made Kurt's cheeks shade pink just thinking about it. Every centimeter of his body exposed, on full display, to another human being; it just made him feel so terrifyingly… vulnerable.

Blaine sat up; resting his weight on Kurt's stomach; he found Kurt's hands and folded them between his, "If it makes you uncomfortable you can tell me; you know that."

Kurt gazed up at Blaine. Blaine who he had spent countless nights with nested beneath heavy covers; offering whispered secrets in the dark like a confession; his soul lighter with every whispered word tumbling across the pillow for Blaine to tuck away somewhere warm, "I want to."

"You do?" Blaine looked a little shocked, "Are you sure?"

Kurt nodded, but he could feel butterflies in his stomach; tickling the inside of his throat; coloring his cheeks pink with delicate wings, "Could you, um, could you also—"

Kurt could see the white glow of Blaine's smile and then warm weight was slipping off his stomach; shifting the mattress down a little lower beside him, "Yeah, sure."

Kurt tried to shake his nerves as he shifted to kneel on the mussed up comforter. This was silly—all he was doing was taking his clothes off, but his fingers trembled when he reached for his belt buckle.

Blaine watched him quietly for a minute before leaning in and kissing him; he gently pulled Kurt's hands to his own belt before moving his hands back to Kurt's jeans, unzipping his fly; easing the tight denim down his hips.

Kurt reciprocated, his hands decidedly less shaky taking off someone else's clothing. Besides, Blaine's kiss was so deep it consumed his mind and took the edge off his nerves even as he felt cool air tickling the backs of his legs.

Blaine finally broke off the kiss to lean across the bed and turn on the lamp on the bedside table. Kurt's heart drummed in his ears when pools of warm light suddenly spilled over the room. Despite the flush he felt creeping all the way from his neck to his hairline (and  _Oh, God, Blaine could definitely see that right now_ ), Kurt's eyes moved to study Blaine.

A quiet 'oh' left Kurt's lips, more a breath than a word at all. He'd felt Blaine's body before, of course—the contours of his abdomen under curious fingers and the soft skin of his neck beneath swollen, hungry lips, but to actually see it all—to take it all in at once—was something different. He loved the feel of Blaine, but the sight of him… Kurt's eyes slid over Blaine's body; trying to commit it to memory—the wisps of dark hair on his chest; the uninterrupted line from his navel to his half-hard cock; the soft rise and fall of his ribs beneath tanned skin… All of it at once and all so perfectly cohesive and exposed; it was… breathtaking.

When his eyes drifted up to meet Blaine's, Kurt became horribly aware of his own nakedness. He crossed his arms across his chest; self-conscious in the light even if it was just the blushing glow of a bedside lamp. Blaine sat back on his heels and took him in slowly; his eyes drifting over every inch of his too pale skin; over his soft curves where other boys might be toned and sculpted, "Lie down."

Kurt was suddenly shy—he couldn't remember the last time he'd been shy around Blaine—but did as he was told, his gaze never leaving Blaine's face.

Blaine remained sitting for another moment, his eyes gliding over Kurt's body. Slowly, he reached out and touched his hand to Kurt's chest. He traced a line around his side, over the soft curve of his hip; down his leg. On and on his fingers moved, feather light and raising goose bumps on Kurt's body in their wake. Blaine lowered himself down slowly, and pressed a kiss against a milky patch of Kurt's skin and then another and another and another; his fingers followed, connecting the cool, wet spots his mouth had left in a line arching from his throat to his hip, and, Oh  _God_ , that felt amazing. Kurt's breath caught when Blaine's tongue traced across his inner thigh. Blaine smiled up at him, "Roll over."

Kurt rolled over, but anxiety twisted at his stomach once again. He couldn't see Blaine this way; couldn't watch his face to see what he thought about him—about his too white skin and the freckles on his shoulder blades—he considered saying something, but then Blaine was touching him again. He started up the same ritual as before, his fingers following his mouth down each and every vertebrae of his back from his hairline all the way to his tailbone. He didn't stop there—he kissed the funny scar on his lower back that he'd gotten in a biking mishap when he was six; he kissed the backs of his thighs; his calves. On and on he moved, creating constellations of kisses and ghosted lines against Kurt's skin. Finally, Kurt felt his chin pressing back into his shoulder; Blaine's hot breath teased the shell of his ear with a whisper, "Turn back over."

Kurt did as he was told, but when his eyes met Blaine's, he was still embarrassed, maybe even more so than before—Blaine had just seen every inch of him; touched every centimeter; kissed every little bit of anything that had ever made Kurt feel insecure. He looked away; his cheeks hot.

But Blaine would have none of it, he cupped a hand on Kurt's cheek so he could look nowhere else but those warm, honey eyes. Blaine touched a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

Kurt felt a wave of…of what? Adoration and love and desire and…and…he wasn't even sure what, but it rendered him speechless. Instead of trying to babble out a coherent sentiment, he expressed himself in the only way he could think of. He caught Blaine's mouth against his own; tasting the sweet, bubblegum taste of his tongue. He let out a moan against Blaine's mouth. His whole body was drunk with the taste and the smell and the feel of so much hot skin against his own, but he couldn't be sated. No matter how close he pressed, he wanted him even closer; he wanted to drown in everything Blaine. He could barely speak for the buzzing in his head, "My turn."

Blaine reluctantly broke off the kiss and laid back, heavy lidded eyes following Kurt's every move and his heart pounding hard against his ribs beneath Kurt's lips. He found the freckle on the inside of Blaine's knee; the little birthmark by his shoulder; a spot between his seventh and eighth ribs that, when kissed, made Blaine moan with pleasure and his heels dig harder into the sheets. His fingers tangled in Kurt's hair as Kurt teased him, dropping kisses as low as he could on his stomach; sucking softly at his inner thighs; teasing that spot between his ribs again with his tongue, "K-Kurt, please, I—come here."

Kurt stopped; surprised by the request, "You don't want—"

"No, not yet, just…" Blaine was panting for breath, "Just come here and kiss me again."

Kurt complied willingly and let out a whimper when Blaine grabbed his ass and pressed him down hard on top of him, but then Blaine's hands couldn't seem to decide what they wanted—they moved back up his back to the nape of his neck only to abruptly jerk back to their starting position. His indecisive roaming stopped abruptly on his waist, his fingers locking into soft flesh and suddenly Kurt found himself locked back between Blaine's body and the mattress.

He could feel Blaine's heart hammering in his chest and his own heart crashing against his ribs as it leapt up to meet it, only bone and tissue keeping them apart. He was grateful for Blaine's weight pinning him to the bed; without it, he was sure he'd float away from this moment that was too incredible; too delicious; too perfect to be real. Even if Blaine's mouth wasn't pressed against his, Kurt could not have put his thoughts into coherent words; his mind was full of hot skin and cherry-flavored lips, and his body ached with want for more—more of his mouth, more of his skin pressed close, more of anything that was Blaine.

When Blaine finally did move his mouth down to his neck, Kurt still couldn't find the words. Blaine was talking, he realized, murmuring breathlessly between kisses, "Kurt—I want—I want even more of you… Is that possible? To—To want you even more than I already do? I just—I can't even explain how much I—you're so fucking perfect; every inch of you—I just—"

Kurt tangled his fingers in Blaine's hair and pulled him back up to his mouth, "So take more."

Blaine finally paused in his frenzied movements and kisses to meet Kurt's eyes, "Are you… are you sure? Because it's a big deal and I mean, I know we've talked about it and stuff and I want to, but I guess, I mean, only if you want to and…just…a-are you sure?"

"Yes, I… I want you; I want you to…" He groped for what he wanted to say, but nothing seemed sufficient; how could anyone have possibly come up with words to describe something this surreal, something that felt so much bigger than letters and sounds? "To… to be mine. Right now."

Jesus Christ, that sounded stupid. Kurt wanted to take the words back the second they stumbled past his lips—and to think he thought he was getting  _good_ at this sexy thing, and then he had to go and say something ridiculous like that… A quiet smile crossed Blaine's mouth; softened his eyes. He lifted a hand and pushed Kurt's damp hair from his forehead; his fingers lingering on his face; cupping his cheek, "I've always been yours."

Kurt wasn't sure who initiated the kiss—long and slow and deep—or who reached out and groped for the lamp until the room was once again bathed in shadows and pale moonlight, but it didn't matter. They relied on hungry hands and exploring mouths, following the memories of charted territories of soft, sweat-damp skin and the moans of the other to find their destinations. They were awkward and fumbling and messy in the blanket of darkness—tangled limbs; groping hands for the drawer of the nightstand; giggles that accompanied Blaine's inability to get the wrapper off the condom; fingernails catching on skin; quick, wet kisses to sooth the minor hurts. All of it was beautiful to Kurt.

When Blaine finally eased into him— all slow, careful movements and trembling anticipation—Kurt let out a hiss of breath through his teeth.

"Is this—" Kurt could see the white of Blaine's anxious eyes hovering above him as he tried to read Kurt's face in the blue glow of the moon creeping in through the window.

"It's okay. Keep going," Kurt untangled a hand from the sheets and curled his fingers around one of Blaine's forearms, "P-please."

Blaine watched his face a moment longer before nodding shakily; pushing in farther; deeper. Blaine let out a whimper, and the muscles of his arm tighten beneath Kurt's grip.

Kurt felt his own breath hitch in his chest—pain and pleasure bubbling in his stomach and coursing through his veins, thick and hot and ticklish below his skin. Blaine had paused again, so Kurt squeezed his arm reassuringly, "More."

Blaine complied, slowly at first—pulling out just as cautiously as he had pushed in, his breath coming out in stuttery bursts, but his eyes constantly watching Kurt's face.

The sharp pain ebbed and Kurt's muscles relaxed, but, almost immediately, he wanted it back; he wanted it again and again and again, but Blaine showed no signs of hurrying anything. Kurt whined and shifted restlessly, "Blaine."

Blaine pushed in a second time, faster. He moaned loudly—a low note that started in his throat and bubbled out through parted lips. Kurt was sure he'd never heard something so lovely, so incredibly  _sexy_ , escape Blaine's mouth. He craved that sound's return almost as much as he longed for Blaine to push harder; faster. He arched his hips up toward him and was rewarded with another whimper of pleasure from Blaine and a sudden stutter of hips closer to his own.

Blaine pushed himself fully in with one quick movement; his elbows buckled just a little and he pulled his arm from Kurt's hold; his fingers half-scrambling to lace between Kurt's in the sheets.

"Blaine," Kurt breathed out his name and pushed his fingers hard into the back of Blaine's hand—he could feel each delicate little bone, the tight tendons below the skin as Blaine's knuckles pushing up just as hard against the pads of his fingers, and the tangle of the sheets catching between their palms.

Slowly, surely, Blaine found a rhythm; his movement became more assured—his hips rolling down smoother, faster.

Kurt watched the dark fringe of Blaine's eyelashes against his cheek when his eyes fluttered close; the way his lips parted for hot, shallow breaths to slide out over his tongue; the sweat that beaded against his skin and soaked the curls of hair at his temples and forehead; a pearled, translucent hallow that glistened in the wash of the moonlight against his skin. He was beautiful and perfect and Kurt wanted to watch him forever, but then Blaine was reaching down and touching him with a sweat-slicked palm; his fingers sliding up once then twisting down. Kurt's eyes slammed shut as the slow boil in his belly began to overflow; burning into his legs and his chest, filling his head and curling his toes and pushing a whine out his mouth that he had no hopes of stifling.

He wanted to open his eyes again; he wanted to watch Blaine's face when he whimpered and tried to form a coherent sentence; he wanted to watch the rise and fall of his chest above him as his breathing came shallower and louder, but it was no use—his eyes demanded to stay closed—his body too immersed in his other senses to bother with something as silly as sight.

Blaine's thrusts became frantic—hard and fast, and Kurt knew he was going to be sore tomorrow, but he didn't care. He couldn't care about anything except the sound of Blaine moaning out his name and the push of Blaine's body into his and Blaine's hand still wrapped up tight in his against the bed, and Blaine, Blaine, Blaine,  _Blaine_ —

He felt more than heard the cry of sound that escaped his own lips. His body arched up to meet Blaine's in one more wonderful pleasure-soaked push, and his mind was filled with nothing but ecstasy dripping from his every nerve; sweet and thick as honey, and the feeling of Blaine's fingers impossibly tangled between his own.  _Forever,_ drummed his heart,  _we'll stay just like this forever._

Blaine was right there with him not a minute later. His head tipping back; a cry of rapture from already parted lips, and then he was collapsed down on top of Kurt; his breathing still hard and his body trembling.

For a moment they remained perfectly still—sweat mixing, breath slowing, and fingers tangled together tight.  _Forever_  his heart beat out the rhythm of the word again and again. When Blaine rolled off of him, Kurt immediately missed the extra heat and weight, but their presence was not absent for long. Blaine wrapped his arms around him; fit his face into the side of Kurt's neck. Warm lips found his pulse point and caressed it in a kiss.

It didn't matter that his eyes were closed; Kurt could still see it all as clear as day. His world remained illuminated with tangled fingers, damp skin, and whispered words against the crook of his neck, "I love you. I'll always love you."

_And the arms of the ocean are carrying me,_

_And all this devotion was rushing out of me,_

_And the crushes are heaven for a sinner like me,_

_But the arms of the ocean delivered me._

_Though the pressure's hard to take,_

_It's the only way I can escape,_

_It seems a heavy choice to make,_

_Now I am under._

When Blaine came, it was just as mesmerizing as the first time and every time after that—his limbs shuddering, his skin flushed, the low moan in his throat—Kurt anticipated Blaine's sudden collapse. He wrapped his arms around his shivering frame, his own body trembling against it as he caught his breath. He pressed a kiss beside Blaine's ear—his skin was damp and tasted salty against Kurt's mouth. He passed his tongue over his lips; pressed it to the roof of his mouth. He rolled Blaine over beside him and kissed him again and again—filled his mouth with the taste of Blaine looking peaceful and spent.

Blaine was panting for breath and a hard shudder passed through his shoulders, but he turned his mouth to meet Kurt's.

"Are you all right?" Kurt murmured; pressed a kiss to his neck.

"I'm…" Blaine closed his eyes. He bit his lip.

"What? What's wrong?" Kurt stroked his cheek, "Blaine, you're crying, what is it?"

Blaine opened his eyes again. He reached over and brushed his thumb across Kurt's paint-stained cheek; a shadow of a smile crossed his mouth, "So are you."

Kurt touched a hand to his face to feel the tears for himself; he let out a breathy laugh before leaning in even closer to Blaine. He kissed the tear tracks on his cheeks until the faint chemical taste of paint and ocean blended with the rest of Blaine on his tongue.

Blaine let out a long sigh, content and tired and something else, but Kurt wasn't sure what. He moved in as close as he could until their limbs were tangled and Blaine's forehead was pressed against his. He contemplated lecturing Blaine about good times and hard times and how they'd get through it together. But when he met Blaine's eyes, the words all vanished from his head. He was sure he could hear Blaine's thoughts; hear his own soul begging for the same thing Blaine's was.  _Lets stay like this forever._

"I need you to promise me something," Kurt wiped at a smudge of blue paint on Blaine's cheek, but only ended up adding a streak of yellow to it.

"I promise," Blaine's hand came up to squeeze his wrist.

Kurt laughed, "You don't even know what I'm going to ask you to promise yet. I could be asking you to swear you'll stay covered in paint forever."

"If that's what you wanted, I'd do it," Blaine nuzzled in closer; the smell of Lacoste Essential and drying paint and Blaine filled Kurt's nose, "I'd do anything for you… you know that, right?"

Kurt's vision blurred with unshed tears. He wrapped an arm around Blaine and pulled him closer until he rolled onto his stomach and his head was tucked underneath Kurt's chin. He wrapped his other arm around him and held on tight, "Don't ever give up, okay? That's all I want. That's everything I want."

Blaine kissed the bare skin of Kurt's chest where the painted handprint was already flaking off; pressed his fingers into the space between two ribs, "I promise."

_In the arms of the ocean, so sweet and so cold,_

_And all this devotion I never knew went on,_

_And the crashes are heaven for a sinner released,_

_But the arms of the ocean delivered me._

_Never let me go, never let me go._

_Never let me go, never let me go._


	28. Chapter 25, Pt. 1

Saturday morning coffee with Trip had started to become a part of Kurt's schedule as much as work, class, and Friday nights with Blaine. It started with Trip jingling his keys at Kurt expectantly the second week, then Kurt waiting with his jacket already on for Trip the third week, and now, finally, a quick exchange of texts over Thanksgiving to confirm that they were still on for that weekend.

Kurt took a sip of his espresso as he stared down at his notes blearily, "Do you think my professor would fail me if I passed out in the middle of my exam on Monday?"

Trip glanced up from his own open textbook on the table, "Want me to come with you? I can sit next to you and stomp on your foot every time you look like you're nodding off."

"Thanks but no thanks," Kurt stifled a yawn, "I don't understand how you're not falling asleep on your book right now. Give me some of whatever you have."

Trip turned his gaze back down to his book, "While I appreciate being accused of substance abuse as much as the next cleaned up former pill popper, the only thing I can tell you, pal, is that some of us just handle sleep deprivation better than others."

Kurt glanced up at Trip, "You don't strike me as the Black Friday shopping type."

"I'm not, but that doesn't mean there aren't plenty of other reasons for a guy to lose a few hours of sleep." Trip finally looked up to wink.

"Stop, I'm already having trouble stomaching this espresso, and I'd rather not puke all over these pants. I just bought them yesterday."

"Don't give me that. I know for a fact you and Blaine have broken your dry streak more than once over the past couple weeks, so don't treat me like I'm wrong for getting mine."

"Keep it down." Kurt hissed, looking around to see if any of the other coffee shop patrons had overheard.

"Sex is a part of the human experience, friend, nothing to be ashamed of," Trip met the eyes of a pretty girl sitting at the table beside them and winked, "Isn't that right?"

The girl blushed but managed to smile before looking back down at her phone.

Trip cracked his knuckles and turned his attention back to his book.

"You're a pig." Kurt rolled his eyes.

"And yet you keep going out to coffee with me. What does that say about you?" Trip looked up from his book again, "Actually, the company you keep in general is sort of interesting. You live with your former bully, you date the spacey cancer patient, and you go to coffee with someone you have threatened to hit in the face six times this week alone. I think you're kind of a masochist, Kurt."

"Please don't make fun of Blaine." Kurt sighed.

Trip's smile fell, "I heard about last Saturday—the wrestling match for the keys, I mean… good thing we did coffee quick that week."

"Did Dave tell you that?" Kurt rubbed his eyes.

"No, Blaine did."

"What'd he say about it?"

Trip shrugged, "Not much. Just made a comment about it over Thanksgiving."

"How was Thanksgiving with the Andersons?" Kurt couldn't help but be a little jealous that Trip had gotten to spend the holiday with Blaine.

"Quiet," Trip took a drink from his cup, "Just me and Blaine and his parents."

"What'd your aunt and uncle do?"

Trip laughed, "Beats me, whatever they normally do, I guess."

"Did they ask you to come for Thanksgiving?"

Trip doodled on the open notebook beside his book, "It's not like we're close or anything. I was just shacked up with them until school started. I called and told them I'd be at Blaine's place for the holiday and they didn't question it."

"Are you going to go home for Christmas?"

Trip shrugged.

"If you don't go home, will you stay with your aunt and uncle then?"

Trip let out an exasperated sigh, "Jesus Christ, you're as bad as David with the questions. Blaine never shuts up, but at least he doesn't interrogate me as much as you guys do."

"Sorry," Kurt took another sip of his espresso, "…one more question?"

Trip threw his pen down on the table and sat back in his chair, "Oh my God, fine, yes."

"Trade me drinks?" Kurt motioned a hand at the tiny cup beside his book.

"Not on your life, Hummel; I told you that you'd hate that shit and you ordered it anyway." Trip laughed and took another drink from his cup.

Kurt sighed, "I don't understand how anyone drinks it. It tastes like something my dad would put in a car."

"Go get something else then," Trip glanced at his phone, "But make it a to-go order; I have to get back to Dalton for Warblers stuff."

"They're working you guys hard." Kurt closed his book and pushed it into his bag.

"Holiday concert season starts this Friday." Trip rolled his eyes.

"A concert? You didn't tell me you guys had a show!" Kurt perked up.

"Show choirs tend to do that," Trip shoved his own things into his bag, "Have shows, I mean. It's supposed to be a warm up for sectionals."

"Do you have a solo for this one? Do you have a solo for  _sectionals_?"

"I thought we were done with questions." Trip shrugged his coat back on and stood.

Kurt drained his espresso in one quick gulp and flinched, "You're seriously not going to tell me if you have a solo?"

"I get to sing." Trip smiled and turned toward the door.

"Trip," Kurt whined, trailing after him.

"Kurt." Trip replied, smiling over his shoulder as he crossed the parking lot.

"Come on, don't be an ass about this, I'm trying to live vicariously over here."

Trip sighed as he slipped into the car, "Fine. Yes, I have a solo."

"A big one?"

"Oh my God, do you and David sit around and plan a set of questions to ask me?" Trip rolled his eyes and twisted around to look out the back window as he pulled out of the parking space, "We had this same conversation last night."

"Did you actually answer his questions? Because if so, I'll leave you alone and just ask him when I get home."

"I don't get why either one of you care." Trip glanced at Kurt as he pulled up to a stoplight.

"I care because I miss glee club," Kurt smoothed a hand over a wrinkle in his pants, "Dave cares because he's smitten with you."

"I'm fucking David."

"You've made that quite clear, but that doesn't mean he doesn't adore you." Kurt raised an eyebrow.

Trip didn't smile, "David adores the fact that I'm sex with no strings attached."

"You're intentionally ignoring the truth."

" _You_  are intentionally going out of your way to look for things to orchestrate."

"I'm not orchestrating; I'm just guiding pieces into place."

"Don't," Trip turned to face Kurt once they were parked back in the parking lot in front of the apartment building, "I mean it."

Kurt studied Trip's face, "Why not?"

"Because I'm asking you not to," Trip held Kurt's gaze, "Find something else to distract you that isn't me."

"Distract me?" Kurt echoed.

"I—fuck it, never mind. Are you getting out or what?" Trip drummed his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel.

"You're snippy." Kurt frowned.

"I'm going on two weeks without a single cigarette. I get to be snippy," Trip motioned a hand toward the door, "Get going."

"Fine, I'm going. Good luck at practice."

"I don't need luck." Trip winked as Kurt slammed the door shut.

"Cocky bastard." Kurt muttered, but waved before turning to go inside.

David, as always, was up by the time he walked into the apartment. He gave Kurt a distracted looking smile, "Hey."

"Hey—another business lunch?" Kurt motioned to David's dress shirt.

David nodded, "Yeah…"

"A little piece of advice from me to you: don't order espresso. Ever." Kurt went into the bathroom to fix his hair.

"I'll keep that in mind… is that what you got this morning with Trip?"

"Mhm." Kurt turned from side to side, admiring his new outfit in the mirror.

"Kurt…can I ask you something?"

Kurt pulled his toothbrush and toothpaste out of the drawer, "What kind of something?"

David hesitated, "Did Trip mention his birthday to you?"

"About a month ago he said something…I don't really remember. He's going to be nineteen soon." Kurt stuck his toothbrush in his mouth and peered out the door toward David.

"Next Saturday."

Kurt frowned around his toothbrush, "Wha'?"

"His birthday, it's next Saturday."

"Hm," Kurt spat into the sink, "So what exactly are you trying to ask, Dave?"

David fidgeted in his seat, "Well… okay, so Trip… he has a way he likes to do things."

"If this is about sex—"

"It's not," David flushed red.

"Proceed, then." Kurt rinsed out his mouth and put his things back in the drawer.

"Last night was… different. He came over and got in bed and we talked for a bit, but then he asked if we could just sleep."

Kurt gaped indignantly, "That liar! He was making me feel stupid this morning for being exhausted when he didn't even—"

"Kurt, can you focus?" David sighed.

"Right, sorry. Go ahead."

"…So that's what we did—or I guess pretended to do… like I said, he has a way he likes things done, and normally he sleeps with his back to me," A smile pulled at David's mouth, "…but last night he slept with his forehead pressed up against my arm, so I guess I… I couldn't sleep because I was thinking about why he was being that way, but—I think he thought I was asleep—because out of the blue he just sort of murmured that his birthday was on Saturday, but then he didn't say anything else."

"This is all very sweet, but what exactly are you asking me?"

David blushed again as he turned his gaze from the table to Kurt, "Could I… should I do something for him? For his birthday or whatever."

"I don't know all of the rules governing friends with benefits, but I'm not sure that they give one another birthday presents."

"Oh, right…" David nodded, his gaze drifting back to the table.

Kurt studied him for a moment before moving across the room to take the chair next to him, "Dave, are you… do you want to be more than just friends with benefits with him?"

David flushed red.

"Oh. My. God.  _Finally_!" Kurt clapped his hands together.

"Kurt, even if I do  _maybe_  feel that way, he doesn't."

"Shut up," Kurt waved a hand as though to brush off David's comment, "Don't worry, I know exactly what to do."

David looked up, "you do?"

"We're throwing a birthday party."

David's face fell, "He'll kill you."

"No he won't; we'll disguise it as a little post-performance soiree on Friday night," Kurt was suddenly wide awake, "It'll be good for Blaine, too. It's  _perfect._ "

"I thought you had school and work shit coming out your ears." David still looked cynical.

"I do for now, but once this exam is over Monday, I'm going to have tons of time on my hands."

"I don't think an extra hour or two in your days means 'tons of time'," Dave frowned, "You can't just take a breather or something?"

"No. I'm going to be busy planning a party, Dave, a party where you can declare your undying affections to Trip," Kurt paused to look over David, "I don't know how you managed to fall for him, but I don't understand how Finn and Rachel stand—"

"Can you put the breaks on this for like one second?" David sighed.

"Fine, what?" Kurt snapped; irritated to have his mental party planning interrupted.

"I'm not… I don't know if that's how…" David looked frustrated for a moment as he searched for the words, "I… I do care about him—"

"Mhm."

"Let me finish, okay?" David huffed, "I care about him, but… I don't want to ruin our thing if stuff doesn't work out."

"Then you'll never date anyone," Kurt rolled his eyes, "Relationships come with risks, Dave."

David looked sad, "Like cancer?"

"Unfortunately yes, but the only tumor Trip has is the one growing on his manners."

"That's sort of possible; that's stuff in the frontal lobe of your brain, right?"

Kurt looked at David in surprise.

"I… I did some online research stuff about—" David motioned at his head and met Kurt's eyes almost shyly, "I wanted to know why Blaine can get so…mean sometimes. I didn't know… you always know what to do when he gets like that, so I thought maybe there's like a written up thing somewhere out there about how I'm supposed to react or something."

Kurt was quiet for a moment, "…He's been okay for the past couple weeks."

David nodded quickly, "Yeah, he seems… he seems good."

Kurt glanced at his phone, "Speaking of Blaine, I need to get over to his place. I'll see you tonight? We can start party planning as soon as my exam is over on Monday."

"Do you plan on telling Trip about your party?"

"Not my party,  _his_  party," Kurt pulled his jacket on and made for the door, "And I'll try to remember to mention it to him."

"He's gonna be mad."

"He will not…and David?" Kurt turned as he pulled open the door, "…thank you."

"For what?"

"For taking an interest in Blaine… for trying." Kurt smiled a little.

Dave blushed; nodded, "I'll see ya later. Tell him I say hey."

* * *

When Kurt got to the Anderson's house, he pulled a shopping bag and his backpack out of the passenger seat before going to the door and ringing the bell.

Elizabeth answered, smiling much more than she had the previous weekend, "Hello, Kurt. Happy belated Thanksgiving."

"Same to you," Kurt smiled and stepped into the welcomed warmth of the entryway, "Did you go shopping yesterday?"

"Afraid not—I took the extra hours for sleep," She motioned a hand toward the stairs, "The way Blaine sleeps you'd think he'd actually gone out yesterday."

"Is he still in bed?" Kurt held up his shopping bag, "I got him a couple of things when I braved the crowds yesterday."

"He was up earlier, but I think he went back to sleep, you're more than welcome to check."

Kurt thanked her before jogging up the steps and pushing open Blaine's bedroom door quietly.

The walls had been repainted weeks ago (honey beige, selected by Kurt from a bag full of paint swatches he himself had brought over for Blaine to look at), but the room still held the faint scent of fresh paint. It was nice; new.

Blaine was asleep on top of his comforter, a blanket twisted around his legs and a pillow over his head.

Kurt put his things down quietly in the empty space on the bed beside Blaine before lifting the pillow and touching a kiss to Blaine's forehead.

Blaine opened his eyes and squinted at Kurt, "Hey."

"Sleepy much?" Kurt teased.

"Mm, I'm always tired," Blaine yawned, "How was your Thanksgiving?"

"Fine, Rachel and Quinn didn't come home, though," Kurt sat down on the bed beside Blaine and tucked his feet under the blanket.

Blaine rolled onto his back and rubbed his eyes, "…I think…yeah, Rachel told me that over Skype… is that a new outfit?"

"It is indeed. One of many Black Friday purchases," Kurt smiled appreciatively and pulled his shopping bag closer, "and I got some things for you, too."

Blaine pushed himself up on his elbows; still blinking against the bright light of the room. He peered down into the bag when Kurt held it out to him, "You didn't have to do that."

"I wanted to—and that blue cardigan was practically sobbing at me to bring it home. I want to borrow it at some point, by the way." Kurt sat back and watched Blaine pull the clothing items out of the bag.

"Why didn't you just keep it if you like it so much?"

"Because I just want to borrow it from you," Kurt smiled, "And I want you to wear it to Trip's birthday party."

Blaine looked up from the items accumulating in his lap to frown, "Birthday party? … did you tell me about this?"

"No," Kurt smiled, pleased with himself already, "I decided to put it together this morning."

"When's the big day?" Blaine pulled a hat out of the bag and put it on, leaning forward until he could see himself in his mirror on the far wall.

"Friday night—I need your Warbler contacts before I leave today," Kurt reached over and adjusted Blaine's hat, "Did you know there's a Warblers performance this week?"

"I…" Blaine closed his eyes, "No…. wait, yes, I did."

"And you didn't mention it to me?" Kurt pouted.

"I forgot," Blaine shrugged and handed over his phone, "do you want to go?"

"Of course I do," Kurt pulled his own phone from his pocket and started the slow process of transferring numbers.

"Does Trip know you're putting this party together?" Blaine refolded his new shirts and put them in a neat pile beside him.

"Not yet."

"He's going to kill you."

"That's what Dave said," Kurt looked up to frown at Blaine, "He will not kill me."

"He doesn't like things that aren't under his control, he doesn't like being surprised, and he likes to pretend he's not friends with the Warblers," Blaine smiled faintly, "You're practically begging to piss him off."

"This will be good for him. Good for all of us," Kurt handed Blaine's phone back to him, "Don't you want to see some of your old friends?"

Blaine shrugged, "…Could I opt out of the party?"

"What? No!" Kurt nudged Blaine's hip with his foot, "You're my starring attraction. What freshman Warbler wouldn't want to be in the presence of Blaine Anderson?"

Blaine folded his arm across his chest, his expression suddenly uncomfortable.

Kurt frowned as he studied his face, "What's wrong?"

Blaine lifted a hand to his mouth and chewed at his thumbnail.

"Don't bite. You're going to end up tearing off the whole thing," Kurt pushed Blaine's hand down gently, "Come on, you can tell me."

"I'm not…" Blaine's eyes went down to his lap, "I don't know that I'd be who… who they'd expect me to be."

"What do you mean?" Kurt shifted closer until his legs were draped over Blaine's lap.

"I mean I'm not the same guy I was when I was with the Warblers."

_Oh._ Kurt thought for a minute before reaching out and cupping Blaine's cheek with a hand. When Blaine finally met his eyes, Kurt smiled, "Yes you are—just with a little less hair. If anything it makes your charm even more noticeable."

Blaine lifted a hand and traced it over the back of Kurt's, "You're worse than my mother."

"I'm being honest, Blaine," Kurt leaned in to kiss Blaine's cheek, "You're charming—" A kiss for his other cheek, "—You're funny—" A kiss for his forehead, "—you're charismatic—" A kiss for his nose, "—and you're gorgeous."

Blaine tilted his head up a little to kiss Kurt's mouth. He smiled, "How come you always know exactly how to make me feel better?"

"Lots of practice and a little bit of telepathy," Kurt smiled, "But if you're still not feeling it, then I can just scrap the whole idea and we'll stick with our usual Friday night plans."

Blaine chewed at his lip, "How do you even have time for this right now? Isn't your schedule packed for like eighteen hours a day?"

"I have some free time opening up after Monday." Kurt watched Blaine's face carefully.

Blaine let out a long breath and smiled, "Fine, I'll be there."

"If I had the money, I'd rent out a billboard for the event. 'A party presented by Kurt Hummel with special appearance by Blaine Anderson'—it would be excellent practice for when we're Hollywood's hottest item."

Blaine laughed quietly, but the sound was muffled in another yawn.

"You should sleep and start saving up energy for Friday." Kurt reached out and shifted the blanket tangled around their legs until it was smooth and covering Blaine's feet again.

"You drove out here to hang out with me and you want me to sleep?" Blaine stared at Kurt dubiously.

"I have to study anyway," Kurt patted his backpack as proof, "and maybe when you wake up we can tackle some of your Thanksgiving leftovers. I'll even pretend not to care if you smoke beforehand."

Blaine smiled but searched Kurt's face, "Why are you being so nice to me?"

"Am I not allowed to be nice to my boyfriend?"

"You're being weirdly nice," Blaine replied, a worry line forming between his eyebrows, "Are you okay?"

Kurt reached out and squeezed Blaine's hand, "Yes."

Blaine studied his face; his expression unconvinced, "You're planning a birthday party for  _Trip_ —you're… I don't know, are you sure you're okay?"

"I promise. I'm fine," Kurt smiled and held Blaine's gaze, "Now go to sleep, you're distracting me from my studies."

Blaine's eyes moved over his face one more time, but, finally, he nodded and lay down.

Kurt pulled his notebook onto his lap and moved until he was leaning against Blaine's headboard. He rubbed a hand absently over Blaine's back and paged through the notes balanced on his knees with the other.

Kurt wasn't lying to Blaine; he was fine—better than fine, even. He was doing well at his job, he liked his classes, he had an application mailed out to the New School for 'just in case' next year, and he was fully settled into his routine. The only problem— _not even really a problem_ , Kurt assured himself—had arisen that day in the Anderson's kitchen. With Blaine asleep on his lap he had felt…panicked; suddenly unable to breathe. He didn't give himself a chance to think about the feeling; instead, he promised to burry it. He started packing his schedule. Lunch dates with Finn and Puck, nights with Blaine, coffee with Trip, volunteering to take extra projects at work, the gym with Reese, errands with David until finally, at the end of the day, he would collapse into bed, too tired to think about anything at all.

Over Thanksgiving, his father had been worried, but Kurt had assured him it wasn't a big deal.  _It's good to keep busy._

He filled his days, his hours, his minutes because it was better to have the never ending chant of his schedule running through his mind than to let some other thoughts creep in…what it would be like if that constant twitch in Blaine's thumb were to still; what it would feel like to return to washed out lights reflecting off of slick, shiny hospital floors beneath pacing feet; what would happen if the smell of Blaine faded off of the collars of Kurt's jackets…

"Hey," Blaine's voice brought Kurt's thoughts back to the present.

Kurt shook the last remnants of the thoughts from his head and looked down at Blaine, "I thought you were sleeping."

"I am," Blaine blinked at him hazily, "You've got a death grip on my shoulder though."

"Sorry, lost in thought," Kurt released Blaine's arm quickly, and leaned down to press a kiss to Blaine's temple, "Will you do something for me?"

"Mhm." Blaine made to push himself up, but Kurt shook his head.

"Just hold my hand?" Kurt brushed his fingers down Blaine's arm, "Please?"

Blaine smiled and pulled a hand out from under his pillow. He laced his fingers neatly between Kurt's, "It's my bad hand; is that going to bug you if it's twitching funny while you're trying to study?"

"Not at all."

"…Doesn't having your arm twisted like that hurt?" Blaine frowned, though he already looked ready to fall back asleep.

"No, this is perfect," Kurt smiled, "Thank you."

With his free hand, Kurt pulled his phone back out and sent out the drafted message to the Warblers, smiling a little when he got a near-immediate response from three of them.

He meant to turn his attention back to studying—he really did—but there was something soothing in Blaine's proximity. His arm was indeed twisted awkwardly, but, sitting this way, Kurt could feel Blaine's breath on the back of his hand; feel the small movements of his fingers between his own. Everything about him was close and warm and vibrant. Kurt pushed the book off of his lap and slid until he was lying beside Blaine. He reached out his free hand and wrapped it around Blaine's wrist. The soft thrum of blood beneath his fingertips sang him to sleep better than any lullaby ever could.

* * *

The week moved fast—faster than normal. By the time Friday night rolled around, Kurt was buzzing with excitement.

Blaine watched in amusement as Kurt wriggled in his seat, "You'd think it was you getting to perform the way you're squirming around."

"I've had five cups of coffee today," Kurt shifted in his seat to face David, "Did you bring the flowers in like I told you?"

"Yes," David grumbled, nodding down to the space below his seat.

"Don't step on them during the show. Nobody wants a crushed bouquet."

"I still think flowers are too much," David mumbled.

"They are not. He's a performer, all performers like flowers," Kurt sniffed indignantly before turning to face Blaine again, "Right?"

"Right." Blaine agreed with a smile. He turned back toward the front and nodded, "Here come the troops."

Kurt nudged David's arm as the Warblers took the stage, "See him?"

David's eyes scanned the boys, a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, but he quickly smothered it with a frown, "Yeah, I found him."

"He looks like he's playing nice at least," Blaine smiled when one of the boys beside Trip leaned in to whisper something in his ear.

"Is that his roommate? He gets along all right with his roommate," Kurt squinted to try and make out the boy's face better, "Do you remember his name? …Josh? Trey?"

David looked more intently at the mystery Warbler, "Is he, um…"

"Gay?" Kurt smirked knowingly, "No, you don't have any mystery competition for Trip's affections that we're aware of."

"We're working toward making him find friends, not more boyfriends." Blaine added.

Kurt could see the flush on David's cheeks even in the half-dark. David folded his arms across his chest and made an irritated sound in the back of his throat, "You two are like his fucking parents."

Kurt snorted, "In some respects, we are his parents. We're the only people in the world who love him despite all the shit he pulls."

Blaine looked at Kurt in surprise, "Did I just hear you imply you loved Trip?"

Kurt scowled, "No. Slip of the tongue."

"Freudian slip," Blaine grinned, "You adore him. You just referred to him as our child."

"How about you work on your word vomit slip ups before you start scrutinizing mine," Kurt clapped a hand over his mouth as soon as the words were out of his mouth; mortified that he'd make such an explicit joke about Blaine's issues.

Blaine laughed, "You're talking like Trip, too."

"I didn't mean that, Blaine, I swear, it wasn't funny—"

Blaine grinned, "I thought it was funny."

"No it wasn't, it was awful."

"Hey, come on, we have to be able to laugh about the cancer stuff sometimes, right?" Blaine reached over and squeezed Kurt's hand, "You've been too wound up lately; relax."

"Okay," Kurt managed a pained smile before looking back down at his program. He scanned the set list and suddenly his eyes went wide, "Did Trip mention anything about his solo to you?"

Blaine shrugged, "I assumed he'd get something. Why, what's he doing?"

"He doesn't just have one, he had  _three_. He's the new you."

Blaine snatched the program out of Kurt's hands to look for himself. He let out a fluttery laugh, "That bastard; he didn't even tell his own mom and pop."

"Shut up with the parent thing," Kurt snatched the program back from Blaine and glanced back at the songs, "A couple risky song picks, too."

"What're they doing?" Blaine tried to look over Kurt's shoulder.

Kurt closed the program, "Try to remember."

"Can we not make this into a guessing game?" Blaine looked at him tiredly.

"Please try?"

Blaine looked at him wearily before sighing, "Okay…um…"

"Take your time," Kurt brushed his fingers over the top of Blaine's hand, "Try to picture it. It was right next to Trip's name."

David tore his eyes away from the stage to glance between Kurt and Blaine almost nervously.

Blaine stared down at his lap, deep in thought. After a minute passed he shook his head slowly; looked back up to Kurt's face, "It's gone."

Kurt squeezed his hand down over Blaine's a little harder, "That's okay. You tried. Here, go ahead and look."

Kurt held out the program to Blaine, but he only shook his head, "I don't… I'll be surprised when they start singing."

Kurt felt a pang of guilt sting his heart, "I didn't mean to push, Blaine, I'm—"

Blaine shook his head again; tried for a smile, "It's okay. You meant well… the lights are going down."

Kurt stole one last anxious look at Blaine's face before turning back to face the stage when a round of polite applause accompanied the boys starting a low chorus on the stage.

Trip stepped in front of the group; his face a mask of utter calm as his eyes scanned the audience like he could actually see their faces over the lights of the stage. He opened his mouth and the song poured out.

_Into the night_

_Desperate and broken_

_The sound of a fight_

_Father has spoken._

_We were the kings and queens of promise_

_We were the victims of ourselves_

_Maybe the children of a lesser god_

_Between heaven and hell, Heaven and hell_.

Kurt knew his mouth was hanging open, but he couldn't be bothered to care. Blaine's hand was loose in his; the audience was utterly still. Kurt wasn't sure what he was more captivated by; the voice filling the room, or Trip's transformation on the stage; the calm in his eyes; the almost-smile.

_Into your eyes_

_Hopeless and taken_

_We stole our new lives_

_Through blood and pain_

_In defense of our dreams_

_In defense of our dreams_

Blaine's hand squeezed his finally in a silent  _told you so._

Kurt squeezed Blaine's hand back in response  _Okay, fine. You were right._

David was still frozen on Kurt's right, but Kurt couldn't bring himself to tear his eyes from the stage to check his expression.

_We were the kings and queens of promise_

_We were the victims of ourselves_

_Maybe the children of a lesser god_

_Between heaven and hell._

_We are the kings_

_We are the queens_

_We are the kings_

_We are the queens_

There was a momentary stillness as the song ended; the last notes still hanging in the air, but then the audience was on their feet and the sound of applause filled the room.

"Wow."

" _Told_ you." Blaine laughed; clapped louder.

"There's no way they're not going to Nationals." Kurt stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled.

The only one still sitting was David.

Kurt grinned down at him before turning to whisper in Blaine's ear, "Look at Dave."

Blaine reached over to pat David on the arm, "I know the feeling, pal. It's rough when a guy comes along and floors you in the middle of a song."

David blinked, "Huh?"

Blaine laughed and waved a hand in the air, "There are little hearts floating around your head right now, David."

David blushed scarlet, "I—no, I mean it was just—he was just—"

Kurt smiled, "I can't say I blame you right now."

David glanced sideways at Kurt, his glower melting a little, "He's…really good."

"Not the best the Warblers have had, but he is fantastic," Kurt nudged Blaine's arm gently and smiled.

"Definitely not the best," Blaine's eyes flitted over Kurt's face with a smile before they retook their seats.

The rest of the concert was more of the same—the audience standing after nearly every number and singing along when the Warblers did a few Christmas songs. By the time the final number ended, even the boys on stage were antsy with the excitement; the energy almost palpable in the air.

Trip stepped forward again, this time to a microphone situated at the front of the stage, "On behalf of the Warblers and myself, I'd like to extend our eternal gratitude to you all for coming out to support us tonight."

A roar of applause answered him.

"All ticket proceeds tonight are being donated to the American Cancer Society; if you'd like to donate more, you can stop at the tables out front on your way out. Thank you all, again, for attending. Goodnight."

Kurt and Blaine exchanged a look before standing with the rest of the crowd to applaud as the Warblers exited the stage.

Kurt gave David's shoulder a gentle push, "Come on, time to go congratulate your man."

The boys fought their way through the crowd until they were backstage, but then suffered a secondary wait while people crowded around Trip.

Blaine's eyes drifted around the space, "…Kurt?"

"Hm?"

"On graduation… you were back here with me, right?"

Kurt tore his eyes away from the crowd to look at Blaine. He squeezed his hand, "That's right. I let you wear the feather pin you gave me for my graduation. We stood right there."

Blaine's eyes went to the space Kurt was pointing to. He nodded, though his face showed no signs of recognition.

"All three of you came?"

Kurt turned his attention away from Blaine at the sound of Trip's voice, "I had to see if you lived up to all the hype."

Trip was flushed; smiling, "And?"

Kurt sighed, "And you did."

Trip nodded; pleased.

Blaine seemed to shake off whatever thoughts that had been clouding his eyes, because he was suddenly smiling; clapping Trip on the arm, "You guys are going straight to Nationals. I can already feel it."

"I could be modest and deny it, but I'm not going to," Trip grinned, then added a little more quietly, "They wanted to drag you up on the stage, but I talked them down from it and got them to settle for just doing the ACS thing…hope that's okay."

Blaine looked alarmed at the mere suggestion of being forced up onto the stage, but then smiled gratefully, "No, I appreciate it."

Trip's gaze moved to David, "Wasn't expecting to see you here."

Kurt stomped on David's foot when he didn't react immediately.

Dave shot Kurt an irritated look before turning his attention back to Trip. He blushed red as he held up the bouquet.

Trip took a step back; his expression immediately alarmed and then confused, "What… what're those?"

"Radioactive spiders, Trip." Kurt rolled his eyes.

Blaine elbowed Kurt and shot him a look.

"They're… they're for you," David finally met Trip's eyes, "You were great tonight."

Trip stared at the flowers for another minute before taking them tentatively. He held them between both hands and stared down at them; his expression still perplexed.

David looked nervous, "If you don't like them or something—"

"No," Trip shook his head; finally looked up to meet David's gaze, "I do—like them, I mean."

Suddenly, a tall boy with a shock of red hair appeared at Trip's side, "Flowers? No one got me flowers!"

Trip looked at the boy beside him and managed a smile, "I don't remember you doing any solos either."

"Because I'm a good team player and I know having you on lead is what's best for the team—just like when Blaine was here," The boy turned his smile toward Blaine.

"Were you on the Warblers when I was here?" Kurt studied the boy; sure he should remember such a noticeable head of hair.

"No, I was on the waiting list when you came in, but we had a geography class together—I'm Noah."

Kurt mentally ticked through the Warblers he'd been in contact with throughout the week, "Noah—that's right, you live across the hall from Trip, right?"

"Yeah; hey, thanks for inviting us all to your place tonight," Noah nudged Trip, "Should be a good time, hey buddy?"

"I—what?" Trip frowned.

"The after party!"

"What after party?"

"Your after party." Kurt beamed.

"I'm not having—did I miss something?" Trip looked between them in bewilderment.

"The Dalton Academy Warblers have been formally invited to attend a little post-show get together at the home of yours truly." Kurt motioned a hand between himself and David.

"And part-birthday party since you failed to mention your birthday to any of us." Noah added with a good-natured shove.

Trip didn't look pleased.

"It's going to be fun," Kurt insisted.

"Super fun." Blaine added.

"I should have let them pull you up on that stage." Trip grumbled.

"Trip, don't be pouty, it's a whole night dedicated to you, what could possibly be bad about that?"

Trip looked even less happy.

Blaine glanced at Kurt as if to say  _I warned you._

"Just for a few hours," Blaine turned to face Trip again and smiled reassuringly, "If you hate the whole thing, you can ditch."

Trip looked between them and finally sighed, "Fine."

Kurt clapped his hands together, "Noah, go round up the Warblers into their designated carpools. Do you all still have the directions I gave you?"

Noah pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket, "Got 'em right here."

"Perfect; we'll meet you back at our place," Kurt started moving toward the exit, "Come on, Trip. You're coming with us."

"Why doesn't Trip just drive separate?" David finally spoke up before turning a smile toward Trip, "That way if you want to get out of there you'll have your car."

Trip relaxed a little; shifted the flowers until they were cradled in one of his arms, "Sure… ride with me?"

David smiled; nodded, "Yeah, I'd like that."

"Fine, just don't take any detours on the way back," Kurt looped his arm through Blaine's as they walked away, "I am brilliant. You are dating a genius, Blaine."

Blaine frowned, "I agree, but how so in this particular instance?"

"Blaine," Kurt patted Blaine's arm, "Do you honestly think David is smooth enough to think to suggest the car thing all on his own3?"

Blaine gaped, "You told him to do that?"

"Of course I did," Kurt smiled; pleased with himself.

"You conniving little—" Blaine shook his head; laughed, "What else do you have up your sleeve?"

"For David and Trip, I'm all out of tricks," Kurt pulled Blaine's door open for him once they reached the car before climbing into the driver's seat, "For you, I might be able to come up with a few more."

Blaine shivered and wrapped his arms tight around his middle, "You never cease to amaze me. You'll have to teach me your tricks someday."

"A magician never reveals his secrets, Blaine, everyone knows that," Kurt turned the heat up higher, "But for you, I might be able to share a few tips."

"I'm listening." Blaine smiled as he moved to press his fingers into the heating vents.

"Lesson one, always—and I do mean  _always_ —maintain an air of complete confidence and calm."

* * *

"They promised to be back here right away." Kurt stared irritably at the closed front door, "Where do you think they went? Do you think they ditched? I bet they did. I bet Trip thinks they're being hilarious and they're not even coming."

"We haven't even been here long enough to warm up from being outside," Blaine laughed, "Relax."

Kurt huffed, "If the Warblers get here before Trip and Dave then it's a little hard to have a birthday party for a birthday boy that's not even present."

"I thought the point of this—"

"Finally!" Kurt folded his arms across his chest and gave Trip a pointed look as he came in through the door, "I said no detours."

"We didn't. We were sitting out in the parking lot," Trip shrugged. The bouquet of flowers was dangling loosely from one of his hands.

"Give me those, I'll put them in a vase." Kurt held out a hand toward the bouquet.

Trip handed them over and moved to pull open Kurt's pantry, "Are you going to feed me? I'm starving."

"Pizza's set to be delivered in half an hour."

Trip groaned, "It can't be here sooner?"

"Stop complaining and make yourself useful," Kurt waved a hand toward the stereo, "Pick out some music."

Trip rolled his eyes but did as he was told.

Blaine slid onto the stool beside the counter and watched Kurt arrange Trip's flowers in a vase. He picked up a stray petal and turned it over between his fingers.

Kurt tilted his face in closer to the blooms to smell, "Remember the flowers you gave me at the airport when I got back from nationals junior year? These remind me of those."

Blaine looked up from the rose petal in his hand, "I gave you peonies—pink ones."

Kurt moved to the sink to fill the vase with water, "No, you gave me those orange tipped roses."

Blaine smiled; shook his head, "No, I gave you peonies at the airport. I gave you the roses the day after I told you I loved you for the first time."

Kurt replaced the vase on the counter; smiling, "You're right, you did… that was a lot of flowers over a very short time period."

Blaine reached out and tucked the loose petal down between the other flowers in the vase, "I was so excited that you said it back… I wanted an excuse to hear you say it again so I went out and bought the flowers before I went over to your place the next day."

Kurt leaned over the counter and touched a soft kiss to the corner of Blaine's mouth, "I love you, I love you; I love you."

Blaine smiled; leaned in closer for another kiss, "Love you, too."

Kurt picked up the vase and moved it to the center of the kitchen table. He glanced toward the door at the sound of a knock. But before answering it, he went back to Blaine and pressed another kiss to his forehead; adjusted his hat, "Don't ever let anyone accuse you of having a bad memory, but don't get mad at me if I keep reminding you of how much I love you, okay?"

Blaine smiled, "How could I ever forget?"

Kurt touched one last kiss to Blaine's cheek before going to the door.

Despite the pack of Warblers arriving ten minutes ahead of schedule, and the protests that went up when David and Kurt tried to pay for the pizzas, Kurt was willing to forgive the slight breach in his plans. The only real stumbling point of the night was Blaine barely able to keep his eyes open. He sat on the couch beside Kurt, yawning and blinking hard as he tried to listen to the various former classmates that approached him, but Kurt wasn't fooled by Blaine's smiles and laughs. He was exhausted.

When nearly two hours had passed, and Blaine had yawned for what had to be the fiftieth time that night, Kurt leaned in close to his ear, "Bed time?"

Blaine glanced at his watch, "It's barely ten."

"And you're barely keeping your eyes open," Kurt stood and held out a hand to Blaine, "Dave can captain the party for a few hours, come on."

Blaine glanced around at the small crowd of people before reluctantly taking Kurt's hand and letting him haul him to his feet.

Despite the music and activity, there was a round of whistles and catcalls as Kurt pulled Blaine through his bedroom door.

Kurt rolled his eyes as he closed the door, "Perverts."

"We shouldn't disappoint them, Kurt." Blaine sat down on the edge of the bed with a smirk.

"If you can stay awake long enough to do more than kiss me, have at it." Kurt laughed.

"I can." Blaine stifled a loud yawn.

"So hot."

"Shut up," Blaine laughed, "And hit the light."

"Whatever you say," Kurt flicked off the light switch before moving carefully toward the bed, "Are you still awake?"

"Ha ha, very funny, did you get lost? Where are you?"

Kurt reached out in front of him and groped blindly at the air until his hand connected with something, "Found you."

"You found my nose," Blaine pulled Kurt's hand into his and guided him closer until they were lying back on the bed.

Kurt sighed when Blaine's mouth found his neck.

"Still just wanna go to sleep?" Blaine moved his mouth up and nipped lightly at Kurt's ear.

"Less talking and more kissing, please," Kurt fumbled with Blaine's cardigan until he found the buttons.

Blaine sat back to shrug off the sweater before reattaching himself to Kurt's neck.

Kurt frowned. Something felt not right, too…wet, "Um, Blaine?"

"I thought we weren't talking," Blaine murmured.

"We're not, but, um," Kurt pushed Blaine away gently, "There's either something seriously wrong with your technique or you're going out of your way to drool on me."

"Wha—uh oh."

Kurt wiped a hand over his wet neck, "What?"

"Could you turn a light on?"

Kurt found the switch and twisted it quickly. He turned his hand over and was shocked to see red glistening in the soft glow of his lamp; already turning a crackling, brick red around the edges. He twisted around to face Blaine again and let out a short gasp, "Oh!"

A frown creased Blaine's mouth beneath the sticky slide of blood making it's way down his face; curving and dripping like tears off his chin. He touched a hand to his nose and pulled it away to look. He sighed, "That's what I was afraid of."

Kurt groped blindly for a moment at the nightstand for a box of tissues before remembering he hadn't bought any in weeks. He settled for whatever he could grab—which just so happened to be his shirt—but the second he touched the fabric to Blaine's face, Blaine was recoiling, "Blaine, hold st—"

"That's your shirt." Blaine held a hand cupped around his nose and mouth; muffling his voice, "You love that shirt."

"Funny thing is, I love you more," Kurt rolled his eyes and made a grab for Blaine's wrist, but Blaine pulled away again. Kurt let on an exasperated noise, "Blaine, hold still."

Blaine shook his head; sniffled; grimaced, "Ew, it's in my throat; I can taste it."

Kurt let out another irritated growl before assessing the situation again. He still had his clothes on and Blaine was fully clothed apart from his sweater. He listened to the vibration of the bass outside the room for a moment, "Do you mind running over to the bathroom with me quick? I don't have Kleenex in here, and we're going to need to clean you up anyway."

Blaine glanced toward the door; apprehension momentarily knitting his brow into a frown before he nodded slowly.

"We'll walk fast; keep our heads low so people don't notice us." Kurt nodded assuredly and offered a hand to Blaine as he pushed himself off the bed.

Blaine slid his hand into Kurt's; his fingers not really forming any sort of grip.

Kurt covered Blaine's hand with both of his and hoisted him to his feet; holding him steady when he stumbled a little, "Did you drink anything tonight?"

"Just a few sips of your wine," Blaine's voice came muffled around his hand.

Their eyes met and, for a moment, neither one of them said anything.

Kurt squeezed Blaine's hand a little tighter, "Come on; lets go do some damage control."

Kurt should have had more foresight and gone to fetch Kleenex and a wet washcloth by himself, but now the door was open and they were both blinking in the sudden bright lights and there was no turning back.

The room held the faint scent of pizza and beer and the furniture practically vibrated with the pulse of the bass. People stood too close together; deep in animated conversation and dancing and sipping from red Solo cups. Despite the discordant activity all over the space, half the eyes in the room turned when Kurt slid the door open; a loud cheer took over the small crowd at their emergence.

Kurt smiled weakly back at them and tried to usher Blaine forward with an arm around his waist, hoping no one would notice the bloodied mess that had started to stain the front of his shirt.

"Well, well, well, that was quick; we didn't think we'd be seeing you for the rest of the night." Trip was flushed and smiling as he approached; a cup held loosely in one of his hands.

"Momentary set back." Kurt frowned when he was suddenly unable to move; trapped between the television and a little pack of Warblers chatting animatedly with one another.

Blaine had kept his head low, a decent solution to keeping people from seeing his bloodied shirt and face, but a hindrance to his ability to watch where he was going. He bumped into the back of one of the Warblers and his hand was jarred; a spot of red bloomed out on the rug, "Sorry!"

"Hush, it's fine; I've been dying to try out my steam vac anyway." Kurt half-shouted in his ear over the music.

"Shit, what happened?" Trip tipped his head to get a better look at Blaine's face before looking in alarm back up at Kurt.

"Bloody nose. It's nothing," Kurt sighed in irritation, "We just need to get to the bathroom to clean him up."

Trip turned to the group in front of them without another word to Kurt, "Hey, assholes, move it."

One of the Warblers looked over his shoulder in surprise and then laughed upon seeing Trip's face, "Okay, okay; chill. Your man's over in the kitchen, ya know, if you need anyone to get out of your way, it should be the guys over there that you're bitching at."

Trip froze for a second; studying the others' faces, but for what Kurt wasn't sure.

Another Warbler—Kurt was fairly sure his name was Robbie—clapped Trip on the shoulder and laughed, "Relax, man, it's not like it was a big secret."

"You two have been making eyes at each other all night." Agreed the first. He looked over the crowd toward the kitchen before smiling at Trip again, "He's cute in a lineman sort of way, I guess."

"I—" Trip gaped at them and the expression was enough for Kurt to momentarily forget Blaine and his bloody nose.

"Jesus Christ, Blaine, what happened?"

Kurt flinched when the first Warbler looked in alarm at Blaine still standing close to Kurt's side. Before either one of them could offer an explanation, more people were taking notice. Gasping over the red seeping between Blaine's fingers now, and all trying with little success to offer some form of support.

"—I've got a handkerchief—"

"—Supposed to tip your head back…or maybe it's forward—"

"—Should we call someone? Maybe we should call—"

Trip's bewildered expression quickly moved to purposeful, "Calm the fuck down, it's just a little blood. Move so they can get to the bathroom."

Kurt tucked his arm tighter around Blaine and half-pushed him through the sudden clearing and let out a relieved sigh when his bare feet touched cold tile. He turned to lock the door, but then a quick foot was shoved through, the rest of the body gliding in just as nimbly. Trip.

"Mind if I stay for a minute?" Trip smiled awkwardly, "…Hot out there."

Kurt waved a hand dismissively as he started pulling a handful of Kleenex from the box on the counter, "Lock the door."

Obediently, Trip flipped the lock into place before letting out a sharp gasp, "Shit, Blaine."

Blaine was bent over the sink; his face smeared with too much blood and even more pooled in the bottom of the sink. It stained the white porcelain as it slid lazily toward the drain. He spit another mouthful in with the rest, "Ugh, I hate blood."

Kurt's face paled a little when he looked down at the sink, but then he was moving—quick and efficient. A wad of Kleenex shoved into Blaine's left hand once he was perched on the edge of the counter, patient instructions to hold it to his nose and no, don't tip your chin back, that's how you get blood down your throat, and finally a wet washcloth worked gently over Blaine's free hand to rid it of rusty, sticky stains.

Trip sat on the counter beside Blaine, watching Kurt try to work out the dried crimson at the edges of Blaine's fingernails, "Did you elbow him in the face or something?"

"No, we weren't—wait, yes I did! But I didn't think I hit into you that hard—"

Blaine was already shaking his head, "You barely touched me."

"So it just happened out of the blue?" Trip looked between Kurt and Blaine.

"I've had them before," Blaine mumbled; his voice nasal from the tissue pressed to his face, "I got them before chemo, too—it's too dry outside."

"Mm." Trip hummed his understanding but said nothing else. His eyes drifted toward the door when a loud, familiar burst of laughter trickled through. David.

Kurt looked up from his work to watch Trip's face; tried to read the feelings there.

Trip caught his eye when he finally tore his gaze away from the door, and, much to Kurt's alarm, he blushed.

"Everything all right?" Kurt asked quietly, his eyes moving back down to Blaine's fingers.

Trip was silent for a long minute, "… Did you or Blaine say something to them?"

Kurt frowned as his gaze returned to Trip's face, "Say something to who about what?"

"The Warblers," Trip snapped, "about me being gay."

Blaine shook his head, "That's your call."

Kurt nodded his agreement, "…I take it you didn't tell them either?"

Trip's eyes were back on the door. He shook his head, "I don't make a point of socializing with them period."

"They seem to like you either way," Kurt smiled a little.

"It's like a room full of fucking toned down Blaine's. None of them take a hint." Trip muttered but bumped his shoulder against Blaine's good-naturedly.

"They like to make a point of making everyone feel welcome. They're good people." Blaine shrugged.

Trip was frowning down at his lap, "How do you know it's not a joke?"

Kurt frowned, "What do you mean?"

Trip was glaring in full force at his fists clenched in his lap, "How do you know they're not just pretending to be okay with me? How do you know they don't have a… an angle they're playing at."

"Why would they pretend to be nice just to hurt you?" Kurt's hands paused around Blaine's.

"Because people are really fucking terrible, that's why!" Trip's voice echoed off the bathroom walls.

Kurt watched Trip's face—anger and frustration and pain. So much pain, "They're not like that, Trip. I promise."

"You don't know that." Trip growled.

"And how do you know they will be?" Kurt retorted. He offered Blaine a fresh handful of tissues and tried not to look too closely at the saturated wad of Kleenex Blaine dropped into the trashcan beside the counter.

"People don't just accept you for, for…" Trip grimaced, "Straight guys don't tell you they think your crush is cute. They don't."

"I tell my girlfriends their boyfriends are cute all the time, and I tell my straight male friends their girlfriends are gorgeous on a regular basis." Kurt retorted.

"It's different," Trip leaned back against the mirror; his face suddenly much, much older, "It's different when it's guys."

"They're not your old friends, Trip." Blaine's voice was quiet.

Trip didn't respond. He chewed at his lip and then looked surprised as though he'd forgotten the ring was gone. He glanced at Blaine, "You're about five minutes from bleeding out all over the bathroom floor."

"He is not." Kurt snapped. He rested his hands a little above Blaine's knees, "Can I see?"

Blaine pulled the tissue away reluctantly, "How bad is it?"

Kurt touched a hand to Blaine's chin to tip his head back, "I think it stopped."

"You  _think_?" Blaine echoed.

Kurt snorted, "Take a look in the mirror and you tell me if you can figure out if it's still bleeding or not."

Blaine twisted around to eye his reflection. His cheeks went oddly pale as his eyes roved over his face. Not just the blood—he studied his cheeks and his hair and the contours of his face underneath the dried blood cracking across his jaw like stained glass.

There was something solemn in the way he looked; studied himself. Kurt sought out a new washcloth and soaked it in warm water, "Nothing we can't clean up."

Blaine was still staring in the mirror. Trip was staring down at his lap.

The room was silent apart from running water and the quiet sound of Blaine's breathing a little too hard.

Kurt touched a hand to Blaine's cheek; coaxed him back to facing forward. He smiled when their eyes met and gently began to work the washcloth over Blaine's face.

Blaine reached up and wrapped his hand around Kurt's wrist, "I can do it."

"I know you can," Kurt met his eyes, "…but will you let me?"

Blaine held onto his wrist for another minute before letting go.

Kurt set back to work and managed a small smile, "Good thing I got that sweater off of you."

Blaine smiled back feebly, "Good thing."

Kurt cleaned away the last of the blood at the corner of Blaine's mouth before touching a quick kiss to the tip of his nose, "All better."

"Not quite," Blaine pulled a fresh tissue from the box on the counter and wet it beneath the tap. He held it out toward Kurt, "Tilt your head up a little."

Kurt angled his neck and let Blaine wipe away the forgotten blood dried to his skin.

"This is not nearly as nice as cleaning up paint." Blaine smiled, tossing the crumpled tissue into the garbage with the rest.

"No, it's not."

"Are you—hey, what's the matter?" Blaine searched Kurt's face.

"I—" Kurt suddenly realized his eyes were burning with unshed tears, "Nothing. It's—it must be the girls' time of month. I'm getting hormonal."

Blaine didn't look convinced, "Kurt, is something bothering you?"

Trip was watching now; his face contemplative and his hands still clenched tight in his lap, "…do you want me to leave?"

"No," Kurt forced a smile; swallowed down the tears, "We're done here. All cleaned up, right?"

Blaine looked unconvinced.

"Do you want to go back to bed or rejoin the festivities?" Kurt held out both hands to Blaine to pull him down off of the countertop.

"Whichever you prefer." Blaine was still searching Kurt's face.

"Bed it is then," Kurt turned his attention to Trip, "Are you okay to control your Warblers?"

Trip looked as unconvinced by Kurt's sudden cheeriness as Blaine did, "…Yeah, that's fine."

"Perfect," Kurt tugged Blaine out toward the family room where, thankfully, most of the boys had enough sense to just smile rather than cause another commotion.

Trip held out the box of tissues from the bathroom, "Might want to take that with you; avoid a second accident…they're good for all sorts of cleanup."

"Thanks," Kurt snorted and took the box. He glanced toward where David was still standing near the kitchen and then back at Trip, "Can I offer you some friendly advice?"

"As long as you don't expect me to do anything with it." Trip shrugged.

"Take a chance, Trip," Kurt smiled a little.

Trip's gaze drifted toward David. He gave a small nod.

Kurt and Blaine slipped back into the bedroom quietly and Blaine retook his spot on the bed, "Sorry for the mood killer."

"Another time," Kurt shrugged; smiled.

Blaine watched him undress quietly; worked his tongue around his mouth.

Kurt met his eyes as he crawled into bed, "I can tell you're bothering that sore in your mouth again. Leave it alone."

"Fine… come here," Blaine pushed at Kurt until his back was to him.

"Is this my punishment for stopping us from having sex? I can't even face you while we sleep?" Kurt teased.

"Not at all," Blaine slid a hand up Kurt's shirt; dragged his nails down his skin in long, lazy strokes.

"Mm, that's even better than a back rub. I'll scratch your arms for you later, I swear."

"I could be selfless and say you don't have to do that, but you know I can't resist that kind of an offer." Blaine laughed quietly; still running his nails lightly over Kurt's skin, "…Kurt?"

"Mm."

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm in heaven." Kurt sighed.

"No, I mean…" Blaine sighed, "You've been working yourself hard lately. You never stop going."

"I like to be busy." Kurt slurred; nearly delirious with relaxation.

"I know you do, but…doesn't it seem kind of excessive?"

"No—right there again," Kurt sighed; arched his back up into Blaine's hand.

"You're going to burn yourself out," Blaine's hand stilled, "It's okay if you're not holding it all together all of the time, Kurt."

"I know that…" Kurt was quiet for a moment before rolling over to face Blaine, "I just… I want to focus on good things, Blaine, I don't want to sit around and let my mind drift."

"Where do you think it's going to drift to if you do?" Blaine slid his hand around to Kurt's front; fanned his fingers out against the soft skin.

"I just… I like to be busy. I like to stay focused on happy things because that's what I want to be," Kurt pulled Blaine's hand out from under his shirt and tangled their fingers together, "That's what I  _am_."

Blaine was quiet for a minute, "…I'm happy, too."

Kurt smiled into the dark, "That makes me even happier… know what else would make me happy?"

"Hm?"

Kurt rolled back onto his stomach, "If you'd keep scratching my back."

Blaine laughed quietly and slipped his hand under Kurt's shirt; hummed quietly along to the music playing out in the family room.

Long after Blaine's hand stilled on his back, Kurt lay awake listening to the party going on outside.

Amidst the hum of activity outside the room, Kurt felt it again—the strange fear; the heaviness; the loneliness. He rolled in closer to Blaine and nuzzled his face close enough to feel Blaine's breath on his face.

Blaine stirred. He shifted until his hand came out from under Kurt's shirt and lay loosely draped across his hip. He smacked in his sleep, and mumbled a slurred, "Kurt."

Kurt smiled and closed his eyes, shifting Blaine's arm until he found that soft warm spot on the inside of his wrist. He pressed a kiss to it, "Blaine."

He slept through the night and dreamed of nothing but soft warmth and music.

 


	29. Chapter 25, Pt. 2

Everything about Kurt's bedroom was warm and glowing and perfect. Blaine's breath on his neck, his shoulder trapping Kurt's arm to the pillow and making his fingers tingle with lack of blood; the sun on the pillows creeping in around the edge of the curtains; their combined heat caught underneath the blankets.

Kurt rolled onto his side and tucked his free arm around Blaine and basked in it all.

"Mmm," Blaine hummed quietly, still half-asleep.

"Good morning," Kurt murmured, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

Blaine blinked at him sleepily; even in the muted light, he squinted, "Did you sleep over?"

"You slept at my place, silly. We had a birthday party for Trip." Kurt rubbed his hand over Blaine's back; massaged a tight knot of muscles between his shoulder blades.

Blaine closed his eyes again. After a minute, he nodded slowly, "Right."

"How'd you sleep?" Kurt slid his hand up to the back of Blaine's neck; traced his fingers over the curve of the vertebrae there.

"Mm, still sleeping," Blaine smiled; his eyes still closed. He rolled onto his side and pressed in closer until their chests were flush with one another. He tucked his head under Kurt's chin and tangled their legs together with a quiet hum of contentment.

The arm still caught beneath Blaine was beginning to ache in protest to the lack of blood in his fingers. Kurt curled it up around Blaine's shoulders and rolled them both until he was on his back and Blaine's head was resting against his chest.

Blaine mumbled an irritated sound; clutched his fingers in tighter to Kurt's shirt, "Don't get up yet."

"I wasn't going to, but we were going to have to amputate my arm if it didn't get a little blood flowing soon."

"Sorry," Blaine murmured. He brushed his fingers out across Kurt's chest.

"Would you still love me if we had to cut off my hand?" Kurt smiled up at the shadowy patterns on the ceiling.

"Mhm."

"What about my nose? Would you love me if I had no nose?"

"Mhm."

"What about my upper lip? What if I had no upper lip?"

Kurt felt the soft movement of Blaine's chest moving with a quiet laugh, "Why wouldn't you have a top lip?"

"Tragic accident, I don't know. Are you avoiding the question?" Kurt prodded Blaine lightly in the ribs.

"I'd still love you," Blaine nodded against Kurt's chest; his voice still raspy with sleep.

Kurt drummed his fingers thoughtfully across Blaine's back, "Would you still love me if I didn't have—"

"Yes."

Kurt pouted, "I didn't even get to finish, I could have said something really terrible."

"I'd love you no matter what." Blaine mumbled.

"There's not one thing, not a  _single_ thing you can think of that, if I were to lose, I might suddenly become drastically less desirable?" Kurt huffed.

"Fine… your soul," Blaine yawned, "If you didn't have that, then we'd have a problem."

"Why is that the line?"

"You wouldn't be you," Blaine mumbled, "Aren't we going back to sleep?"

Kurt slid his left hand over Blaine's right on his chest; pressed his fingers lightly against his thumb until it was still against his t-shirt, "Where would it go if it wasn't in me?"

"Your soul?" Blaine murmured.

Kurt nodded before he remembered Blaine couldn't see him, "Yeah… we've never really talked about it, but… do you believe in heaven and that stuff?"

"Not the kind in the bible I don't think—with clouds and halos and whatever…" Blaine was quiet for so long, Kurt thought he'd fallen asleep again, but then he was talking; the soft hum in his chest vibrating against Kurt's side, "If I tell you what I think, will you promise not to laugh?"

"Of course," Kurt squeezed his hand over Blaine's a little tighter.

"I think you just kind of…" Blaine sighed, "I can't think of the word…you die and then there's little pieces of you, sort of…. in everything. Like sunshine and rain and grass and birds and stuff. Like really, really small parts of it though… so it's like you're nowhere and everywhere."

"What made you think of that?" Kurt asked softly; tracing the pads of his fingers over the back of Blaine's hand.

Blaine, apparently resigned to giving up on sleeping, turned his head until he was looking up at Kurt. He rested his chin on his arm; still blinking sleepily, "Ya know how sometimes… sometimes all the sudden you see something or touch something or you're not even really doing anything at all, but you get that weird sort of really happy feeling for a second?"

Kurt nodded.

"I think…" Blaine blushed, "When I was little, I asked my grandma about it, and she told me it was angel wings brushing up against you when you feel that way, but… I guess I started thinking of it sort of different… I liked the idea of it being the good pieces of people left over and when you find one that recognizes you—someone who knew you or…or thought they should know you maybe, you just get that feeling like…like that little second or minute where things feel really…right or good or I don't know…it sounds stupid in words."

"No," Kurt shook his head; lifted his hand to stroke a thumb over Blaine's cheek, "It's nice."

Blaine's eyes fluttered away from Kurt's before looking back up at his face again almost shyly, "Sometimes… lately especially…. I wonder if I found something of your mom if I'd get that feeling. If she'd know me… if she'd know who I am to you."

Kurt sniffled when his vision suddenly blurred with warm tears.

Blaine pushed himself up until his head was resting beside Kurt's on the pillow. He brushed the tears away with a shaky hand, "I'm sorry—I wasn't trying to upset you. I know you don't believe in this sort of stuff—"

"I'm not upset…" Kurt stopped Blaine's hand against his cheek, "You just know how to overwhelm me constantly, don't you?"

"I'm sorry," Blaine's eyes searched Kurt's, "I wasn't trying to—"

"Hush, I didn't mean it as a bad thing," Kurt smiled weakly, "You're painfully perfect, you know that, right?"

"I'm far from perfect," Blaine smiled, too.

"You're a very flawed variety of perfection," Kurt conceded. He touched a kiss to the corner of Blaine's mouth, "For one, you have terrible morning breath."

Blaine laughed against Kurt's mouth, "So do you."

"I propose a plan," Kurt pushed himself up on an elbow, "We brush our teeth and then come back to bed."

"I like that plan," Blaine smiled lazily, but he recoiled back under the blankets barely a second after sitting up, "It's freezing!"

"Suck it up, we're coming right back. I'll even let you put your awful cold toes on me until they warm up after our little oral hygiene field trip to the bathroom."

Blaine rolled onto his stomach and wrapped the blanket in tight around his shoulders.

"I'm not touching you until you brush your teeth, Blaine Anderson." Kurt searched the floor for his pajama bottoms but paused to give Blaine a pointed look.

"Fine, fine," Blaine grumbled. He sat up; the comforter still clutched around his chest. In one quick, albeit clumsy, movement, he climbed out of the bed, pulling the comforter with him. He walked to the door and turned to look at Kurt, "Coming?"

Kurt stared at him with a mix of amusement and irritation, "You cannot be serious."

Blaine hugged the blanket in closer over his shoulders, "I'm problem solving."

"No, you're just  _being_  a problem," Kurt found his pants stuck halfway under the bed. He gave Blaine another look as he pulled them on, "We're going to have to put the bed back in order now after we brush our teeth which means even less time sleeping for you."

"I don't mind sleeping in a messy bed," Blaine pushed the door open and padded toward the bathroom; the comforter dragging behind him like the train of a dress.

"Well, I  _do,_ " Kurt wrinkled his nose when Blaine dragged the comforter with him into the bathroom, "On second thought, I might just be throwing that straight in the laundry."

"The floors are fine, I got up this morning and cleaned."

Kurt jumped at the sound of David's voice, but then smiled upon seeing him in the kitchen, "Thank you, Dave. It looks great."

David nodded, "I didn't vacuum yet—you were all still sleeping, but the bathroom's fine. I used that Swiffer thing you got us."

"All?" Kurt echoed, a slow smile creeping over his mouth, "Is Trip still here?"

David looked down at the counter, but Kurt didn't miss the smile on his face, "Yeah… he's still asleep."

"Hm, he's usually out of here before the sun's even out." Kurt deviated from his path to the bathroom to move into the kitchen.

"Yeah, well, we didn't get to sleep until like five, so…" David shrugged.

Kurt cringed, "You can spare me the details; I've got a boyfriend, I know how it works."

David flushed red, "No! Not because of—I mean we did, but—we were just…talking."

Kurt quirked an eyebrow, "Talking?"

David nodded, his cheeks still colored pink. He stared down at the countertop; traced his fingers over a spot that wasn't there.

"What'd you talk about?" Kurt tilted his head and tried to catch David's eye.

"A lot of stuff," David gave up on the spot and glanced up at Kurt, "Our parents, school stuff, music… he… he told me a lot of stuff about when he first came out… his friends were terrible to him…really, really terrible."

Kurt's smile faltered, "Blaine's mentioned people weren't always kind to him."

"I…" David looked up to meet Kurt's eyes, "After hearing it…I know you told me to stop apologizing, but I—I need to say it again. I'm so freaking sorry, Kurt, I think about it sometimes and I don't even know—"

"The actions are inexcusable but that doesn't mean you're unforgivable, Dave. You're trying, I know that." Kurt smiled a little.

"I'm not… I know I'm not great at this stuff— the past few months have scared the shit out of me, but…" He shook his head like he wasn't even sure how to finish the sentence.

Kurt touched a hand to his arm lightly, "You seem really happy, David."

David glanced up again; a shy smile finally bloomed over his face, "I am."

"I'm glad," Kurt squeezed his arm once more before going back to the bathroom to join Blaine.

"Ith 'Rip thill 'ere?" Blaine spoke around a mouthful of toothpaste.

"Yeah, he's sleeping." Kurt eyed Blaine's situation and sighed. He was clutching the blanket with one hand at his chest and trying to brush his teeth with his other hand.

"I oost 'or 'oofbuf."

"I can see that," Kurt smirked and moved in closer; he batted Blaine's hand away from the toothbrush and took a hold of it himself, "I'll brush, open up."

Blaine bared his teeth at him and tried not to laugh as Kurt scrubbed at his teeth, "Eeeeee."

Kurt giggled, "You are such a child."

Trip appeared in the doorway, still blinking sleepily and wearing an undershirt and a pair of sweatpants that looked about five sizes too big, "You two are so domestic I could puke."

"Morning, sunshine," Kurt smiled at his reflection in the mirror, "Get in line and I'll do yours next."

"Thanks but no thanks." Trip rubbed his eyes groggily. He stepped in beside Blaine and pulled open David's drawer to pull a toothbrush out, "I have my own."

Blaine spat into the sink, "I don't even have my own toothbrush here."

"You don't have to run off to school three times a week from here." Trip stuck the toothbrush in his mouth and scrubbed a little harder than was really necessary.

Blaine shuffled out of the bathroom, leaving Kurt and Trip to brush their teeth alone.

Kurt studied Trip silently until he spat in the sink, "Happy birthday, by the way."

Trip spat in the sink and rinsed his toothbrush clean before replacing it in the drawer, "Thanks… for everything—the party and stuff, I mean. You guys didn't have to do that."

"Of course we did," Kurt wrinkled his nose when he turned to scrutinize his face in the mirror.

Trip was quiet for a moment; he watched Kurt pull a jar of skin cream out of the medicine cabinet and dab his fingers into it, "You look different when you're not all dolled up."

Kurt shot Trip an icy look as he rubbed the moisturizer into his cheeks.

"I didn't say you looked bad," Trip held up both hands in defense, "Just different without your hair all…styled and stuff."

"Thank you for the observation," Kurt rolled his eyes and replaced the jar with an array of others.

Trip chuckled, but then his expression fell as he looked toward the bathroom door, "I don't think he's ever been up when I've left before… do I have to say something or can I just go?"

Kurt looked at Trip almost sympathetically, "Did you consider hanging around for awhile?"

"That's not really the way our thing is set up, Kurt," Trip wrinkled his nose, "We don't brush each other's teeth."

"I think you should stick around for a little bit. See how it goes." Kurt shrugged.

Trip fidgeted, "I don't know if… I don't know if he wants that."

"When have you ever cared about other people's wants?" Kurt smiled a little.

"Solid point," Trip mumbled, his fingers worrying the hem of his t-shirt.

"Take a chance, Trip," Kurt met Trip's eyes for a brief second before turning and making his way out of the bathroom. He smirked to himself when he heard Trip trailing behind him.

Blaine was leaned against the counter, staring down into the toaster. He glanced up to smile at Kurt, "I stole two pieces of bread, is that okay?"

"How dare you feed yourself in my house," Kurt shook a finger at Blaine and smiled, "No interest in sleeping in anymore?"

As if on cue, Blaine yawned, "Eventually…I propose a crusting day."

"What the hell is a crusting day?" Trip kept his eyes on Blaine, careful not to look back toward where David was standing at the stove, "Are you fucking up your words?"

"No! It's when you don't do anything and just sit around, and, you know…crust." Blaine looked to Kurt for confirmation.

"He's the one who started using the term, but he's not having a word find issue, that really is what he calls it," Kurt allowed Blaine to wrap them both in the blanket he was still holding around his shoulders, "No matter how disgusting I think it sounds."

"It's not disgusting." Blaine insisted.

"Crusting is what happens to food that gets left out overnight. Crusting is what happens to your eyes when you're sleeping and you're sick. There is not a single thing not gross about implying we are going to be so lazy that we might actually start to congeal with lack of activity." Kurt pulled himself out of Blaine's blanket cocoon when the toast popped up. He pulled both pieces out nimbly and dropped them down on a paper towel, "And I have a project I need to work on, but you're more than welcome to spend the day on the couch watching movies while I work."

Blaine sat down on a barstool and pulled a corner off one piece of toast, "Deal."

When Trip attempted to snatch a piece of Blaine's breakfast up, Kurt slapped his hand away, "Don't steal food from my too skinny boyfriend. Get your own."

"You always make me breakfast before I leave." Trip whined.

"Correction, I make me breakfast, and you steal it as you run out the door." Kurt went to the fridge and pulled out a carton of soymilk, but spared Trip a withering glare.

"Fine, I'll starve," Trip huffed.

"No you won't, I'm gonna feed you, just give me a sec." David finally spoke up from his place at the stove.

Trip watched quietly as David pulled down plates and cups, "You, um, want me to grab anything?"

"No, just sit down." David dropped a plate down on the island, but Trip made no move to sit. He stood awkwardly and stared down at the red ring painted around the edge of the plate until David was dishing food out of the pan and onto Trip's empty plate.

"Pancakes?" Trip blinked down at them; his voice distant.

"With cinnamon in them," David paused, "… you said that's what you liked when you were a kid, right?"

"I…" Trip was still staring down at the plate, "Yeah, I did."

David nodded, assured, and moved back to the pantry to retrieve syrup. He put it down beside Trip's plate, "What do you want to drink? I've got orange juice and milk… Kurt might be willing to part with some of his soy, organic stuff if you're into that."

"Orange juice is fine." Trip toyed with the syrup bottle.

"Orange juice it is then," David filled both of their glasses before filling up his own plate. He smiled at Trip, "You wanna sit down?"

"Oh, uh, yeah… sure." Trip followed David to the table with his food and took the seat across from him.

Kurt watched them surreptitiously out of the corner of his eye as he pushed two more pieces of bread into the toaster for himself.

Blaine stared unabashedly; a grin on his face as he looked between them. Kurt elbowed him.

They all ate in silence for a minute. The sound of forks scraping against plates and Kurt spreading butter on his toast was the only thing breaking the otherwise total silence.

Trip's gaze drifted from his plate to the vase of flowers and then back down to his plate again.

David watched Trip eat, "You like them?"

Trip smiled, looking slightly more at ease, "Love them."

"Good," David glanced over at Kurt and Blaine, "If you guys want some, there's more on the plate by the stove."

"We're fine," Blaine motioned at his toast. He looked between David and Trip again before Kurt's elbow jabbing him in the side had him once again facing forward.

"Work today, Dave?" Kurt settled into the open seat beside Blaine to eat his own breakfast.

"Nah, not until Monday; we're through the worst of stuff for now," David stabbed a forkful of pancakes and motioned it toward Kurt, "Almost done with that crap that's been taking over our family room floor?"

"It's not crap, it's for the Christmas display," Kurt huffed, "And if you'd have helped me fold the cranes, I'd be done by now."

"I can help today—I might be a bigger hindrance than help, but I can try." Blaine got up to drop the rest of his food into the trashcan.

"Trust me, you won't want to help once you see what he's doing," David rolled his eyes, "And he's a Nazi about how you have to do things. He'll just get pissed at you."

"I got mad at you  _one_  time and it was with good reason," Kurt turned his gaze to Trip, "I asked him to help me make these trees made out of wrapped cardboard and it was an absolute disaster."

"Should've asked someone with more nimble fingers," Trip put his fork down on his empty plate and wiggled his own fingers in display.

"I'll keep you in mind next time I need five artificial tree stumps," Kurt sighed, "Really though, the cranes are much easier to make—it's just the number of them that's a little…daunting."

"How many do you need?" Blaine licked butter off of his fingers, his gaze still flitting over to the kitchen table from time to time.

"…Two thousand."

"Jesus," Blaine's eyes went wide, "Why would you agree to that?"

Kurt shrugged, "I've been asking myself that all week. I have boxes full of them at work and taking up all the space under my bed, but I still need a lot more. It would be wonderful if I had a roommate who was willing to help me."

"I'll think about it," David conceded. He glanced at Trip's empty plate, "Do you want more?"

"No, thanks, I think I just ate half my weight in under twenty minutes." Trip stood and moved toward the sink with his plate and glass; stumbling over the cuffs of his sweatpants as he went.

David moved quickly to follow him, "I can take care of the dishes."

"It's fine," Trip started the sink and held his plate underneath the water.

David moved to stand behind him; his hand stilling Trip's wrist, "Really; we have a dishwasher that I can put them in. Don't worry about it."

"Fine… thanks." Trip turned off the tap, but before he could move toward the dishwasher, David wrapped his arms around him from behind; hugged him close.

He touched a kiss to the back of Trip's head, "Happy birthday."

"I—" Trip stood perfectly still in David's embrace, until finally, slowly, the tension melted from his shoulders and he lifted a hand to squeeze David's forearm, "Thank you, David."

Kurt pulled at Blaine's sleeve and nodded toward the bedroom.

Blaine followed him wordlessly, tripping over the edge of the comforter as they went.

Kurt closed the door behind them as quietly as he could before turning to face Blaine who was already seated on the bed, "Oh. My. God."

"Was that another one of your magic tricks?" Blaine teased. He flopped back on the bed.

"That was entirely Dave," Kurt hummed happily and stretched himself out beside Blaine. He rested his head on Blaine's stomach, "Have you ever seen Trip that…that mellow?"

Blaine shook his head, still smiling up at the ceiling.

Kurt sighed blissfully, "Hmm, remember when we first got together?"

"I kept a journal." Blaine smiled; blushed.

"You did?" Kurt rolled onto his stomach and scooted closer to Blaine.

Blaine nodded, met Kurt's eyes for a moment, "I started keeping it when I first went to Dalton but I didn't write much in it until I was all of the sudden head over heels crazy for you. I didn't know what to do with myself so I'd just… write it all down."

"Am I ever going to get to read this journal?" Kurt teased.

Blaine laughed quietly, "Maybe if I'm in the mood to unabashedly embarrass myself."

"Come on," Kurt whined, "Please?"

Blaine motioned a hand toward Kurt's closet, "Maybe I'll put it in your New York box just to put off letting you read it."

"I'll barter with you for it," Kurt tipped his head down and looked up at Blaine through his lashes, "Anything you want."

"Anything?" Blaine echoed, rolling onto his side to face Kurt more fully. His eyes flitted down to Kurt's mouth.

"Anything." Kurt scooted in a little closer.

There was a knock at the door.

Kurt groaned and rolled onto his back, "What?"

David poked his head in, "Trip and I are gonna run to Target, you guys wanna come?"

"No, but that sounds very  _domestic_ ," Kurt raised his voice loud enough to ensure it carried out to the family room.

Trip's laugh answered him, "Fuck you."

Kurt snorted and turned his attention back to David, "Go on without us, but if I gave you some money would you pick up a humidifier for me?"

Blaine stilled Kurt's shoulder when he tried to sit up to fetch his wallet, "Kurt, you don't need to get—"

"Don't be silly," Kurt shrugged Blaine's hand away, "It'll be good for your nose and good for my skin in the winter. It's a smart purchase."

David took the folded wad of cash and tucked it into his pocket, "Anything else?"

"Look for a really awful rom-com or one of those John Hughes movies. Will that be up to your crusting day standards, Blaine?"

Blaine laughed, "Sounds perfect."

"Who's John Hughes?" David blinked.

Kurt rolled his eyes, "Ask Trip, he'll know."

"Right, see ya in a bit," David disappeared, leaving the door open a crack.

Kurt and Blaine lay in silence, both grinning at one another as they listened to the conversation outside the door.

"—You're gonna try and wear those out?"

"—Don't have anything but my uniform—"

"They'll fall off—"

"—Got something to look forward to—"

There was a short round of laughter and then the front door was closed.

Kurt laughed, shook his head, "Who would have thought that those two would end up together?"

"I dunno, it kind of makes sense…" Blaine yawned.

"Are you getting sleepy on me again?" Kurt pouted.

"A little." Blaine confessed, smiling ruefully.

"Fine. Power nap and then birthday gifts." Kurt lay back down beside Blaine, his feet dangling off the side of the bed.

"It's neither one of our birthdays." Blaine smiled.

"Yours is coming up," Kurt prodded Blaine lightly in his side, "And it's  _a_  birthday and maybe I want to give out presents."

Blaine cracked an eye back open, "Yeah?"

"Yeah, now take your nap." Kurt huffed.

"I'm not tired anymore."

"You are, too, you're going to fall asleep mid-blowjob and then I'll just be upset and I'll develop a complex about my oral capabilities."

"There's absolutely nothing wrong with your 'oral capabilities' as you so aptly put it," Blaine smiled, though his eyes were drooping shut again, "…I cannot think of a single time where I've felt the need to voice a complaint about your mouth other then when it gets too far away from me."

Kurt snuggled in closer to Blaine's side; draped an arm across his chest. He pressed a kiss to Blaine's neck, "Is this a satisfactory level of proximity?"

Blaine hummed, "For now."

"So needy." Kurt sighed.

"M'not needy, I jus' have—" Blaine yawned, "—needs."

"What's the difference?" Kurt smiled Blaine's neck.

"There's a big difference." Blaine mumbled.

"Sure there is," Kurt laughed quietly and groped until he found the comforter. He pulled it up over Blaine and tilted his head up to kiss Blaine's cheek.

"Mm," Blaine draped an arm across his own chest, "You said you'd scratch my arms for me."

"Like I said,  _needy_ ," Kurt let out a loud sigh, but shifted around until he could slide his nails lightly up and down Blaine's arm, "Good?"

Blaine sighed contentedly, "So good…better than sex good."

"That's blasphemous."

A shadow of a smile turned up the corners of Blaine's mouth, but he was already asleep.

Kurt continued the slow drag of his fingers up and down Blaine's arm. He closed his eyes and inhaled the clean smell of Blaine right below his nose and felt his own body relax and start to drift.

Kurt didn't realize he'd fallen asleep until the sound of a door slamming startled him awake.

"Trip, come on, I didn't mean for it to happen—"

"Forget it, Dave, it's fine."

Kurt frowned.

"No, I get why you're upset, but—"

"I'm not."

Kurt startled a little when Blaine spoke, "Are you listening to them?"

Kurt pushed himself up on an elbow; nodded, "…I think they're fighting."

Blaine sat up, too, his eyes on the small gap between the door and doorframe, "…we should go out there; act as moderators."

"What would we even moderate? We don't even know what happened." Kurt was careful to keep his voice low.

Blaine shrugged and pushed himself up off of the bed, "We can find out."

Kurt followed after him quietly. They stood together in the doorway and peered out into the family room.

Trip was in David's doorway, pulling on his wrinkled Dalton uniform shirt. He stared resolutely at the floor as he buttoned it.

David stood a few feet away, his face twisted with remorse and a Target bag still dangling from his hand, "Trip, please, they caught me off guard, I—"

"It's not a big deal." Trip's voice was flat. He stepped back into David's room and closed the door.

David looked at the wood of the door as though it had hit him in the face.

"What happened?" Kurt wrapped an arm around Blaine when he felt him shiver at his side.

David tore his eyes away from the door to face Kurt, "I… We went to the store and we ran into Azimio and a couple guys from Lima—they were visiting some people on campus—and I—we—me and Trip—we were holding hands, but I saw them first so I let go, and I guess I—I wasn't thinking—they saw us and I…I panicked. I totally fucking panicked!"

"Take a breath, Dave, I can't even follow what you're trying to say." Kurt frowned, though his muscles had tensed at even the mention of Azimio's name.

"I panicked and I fucked up," David finally put the bag down and dragged a hand through his hair.

"David," Blaine looked between the closed door and David, his expression suddenly anxious, "what did you do?"

"I went up and talked to them, Z and the guys, I mean—they saw me, I had to," David swallowed, his expression suddenly even more guilt stricken, "Trip stayed back a bit while I talked to them… when the guys asked what I was doing there… I lied. I told them I was living in Cincinnati and I was just home seeing my Dad at a work site and then Z noticed Trip and he asked me if… he asked me who he was and I—fuck, I screwed up so bad; so fucking bad."

"David," Blaine's voice was even more tense, "What did you say?"

David's voice was so quiet, Kurt almost didn't hear him, "I acted like I didn't know him; like I wasn't with him."

"Dave," Kurt gaped at him; his voice quiet with shock, "…what did he do?"

"Trip?" David sank back into the couch; "He walked past us like he was just shopping or something… he waited for me at the doors."

Blaine glared hard at him and opened his mouth to speak, but then Trip was back out of the bedroom, fully dressed in his wrinkled uniform.

David shot to his feet, "What're you doing?"

"What's it look like? I'm leaving." Trip looked around the floor until he spotted his shoes underneath the table.

"Trip, please, can we talk about this or something?" David followed him to the table and watched helplessly as Trip pulled a shoe on.

"What's there to talk about?" Trip didn't look at him as he slid on his second shoe, but his fingers shook as he pulled the laces tight.

"I was stupid; really,  _really_  stupid. I shouldn't have done what I did and I'm a coward. I swear, if I could change what I did, I would," David sank down to his knees and slid a hand over Trip's shaking fingers, "You know I would."

Trip recoiled from the touch as though he'd been burned. He got to his feet and stared down at David vacantly, "It's none of my business what you do. You don't have any sort of obligation to me, that's never been what this was, right? "

"I—Trip, no," David looked up at him miserably, "I'm taking ownership of this thing. I was a coward and you have every right to be upset over this, but—"

"It's nothing."

"It 's not nothing, I shouldn't have—"

"David," Trip crouched down again until his eyes were level with David's; his voice cool, "This isn't anything because  _we_  aren't anything."

When Trip straightened up again; David didn't move. He looked up at Trip as though he'd been slapped, "You don't mean that."

Trip snorted, but he looked away from David; his eyes roving over the apartment quickly, "Where are my keys?"

David slowly pulled himself back to his feet; he spoke again as though he thought maybe Trip hadn't heard him, "Trip, you don't mean that."

"Funny thing is, I do mean it," Trip glared around the apartment, "Seriously, where the fuck are my keys?"

Kurt spied them on the end table beside the couch. Quietly, he moved over and scooped them up, "Right here."

Trip snatched them out of his hand and moved toward the door, but he was met by another obstacle. He stared at David now blocking his path; his expression carefully passive, "I need to go."

"Trip, in the car, on the way to the store, you said you were hap—"

"Move." Trip growled; his expression suddenly hard.

David searched Trip's face; his voice soft, "Don't do this now, Trip. Don't shut me out and act like you don't care. I  _know_  you care; I know I hurt you, but I swear we can—"

"David, get the fuck out of my way!" Trip screamed.

It turned into an ugly screaming match. David unyielding in the door and Trip's voice growing louder; his face more and more furious as their words overlapped in a discordant mess of noise.

"I know this is what you do, I know you get upset and you shut down, but if you'd just—"

"So help me God, Karofsky, I'll fucking move you myself."

"God dammit, Trip, if you'd listen long enough to even hear what I'm trying to say—"

"—You don't get to tell me what to fucking do, move before—"

"—I've never felt this way about anyone, and it scares—"

"I just want to get out of here. Why the hell can't you listen? Let me—"

"I love you!"

Trip froze; the words on his lips fading to sudden muteness; his eyes locked on David's.

For a moment, David looked just as mortified as the others; he dropped his gaze for a moment before looking back up at Trip with frightened eyes; his voice quiet, "I love you."

Trip's mouth turned up into a cruel smile, "You don't even know me, David."

"Yes, I do… not… not everything about you, but I know a lot," David held his gaze carefully, "I know you push everyone away so no one can hurt you. I know it scares the hell out of you not to have total control of everything. I know—"

"Most people figure out those cutesy little clichés pretty fast, pal," Trip folded his arms across his chest, his expression still hard.

"I'm not done," David swallowed, "I know you're smart, smarter than most people know and you think about things in ways that I never knew people could think about stuff. I know you have a quirk where you drink a glass of water when you're trying to calm yourself down or figure something out. I know you bite your lip when you're upset and I know you can never keep your hands still. I know you watch Kurt and Blaine like you hate them but at the same time you'd kill to have a fraction of what they have. And ya know what else?"

Trip was glaring at him; silent.

"You stick around. You don't have to, but you do. And you ask me questions and you keep coming back and I think… all of that stuff I know about you? I think you  _want_  someone to know those things—you want to pretend that you like to keep your distance, but you want to let me in just as much I want to be let in. You can say it's stupid and act like you don't care, but I mean it when I say I love you and I think… I think you could love me, too, if you let yourself."

Nobody moved. Even Bocelli was silent in his cage.

Trip hesitated for the briefest of seconds; his expression flickering from shock to a split second of something too fast to catch, but then he was glaring again. He drew himself up taller; his voice cracked, "Move."

David remained motionless for a minute; his hands trembling and then, slowly,  _slowly_ , he stepped out from in front of the door; his eyes still voicing a silent plea for Trip to stay.

"Trip, can I go with you?" Blaine's voice was soft; his expression carefully neutral, "Please?"

Trip paused, his hand already on the doorknob. He stood quietly for a second; his gaze focused with too much intensity on the white knuckles of his hand. When he nodded after a few seconds; the gesture was almost invisible.

Blaine kept his voice carefully neutral, "Can you give me a minute to change my clothes?"

"I'll wait for you in the car." Trip turned the knob and pushed the door open. He took a step over the threshold, but then glanced back at Kurt, his voice whisper quiet, "Thanks for the party."

Before Kurt could respond, he was gone.

David stared forlornly at the door as though, if he stared at it long enough, Trip would come back.

"I told you not to hurt him." Blaine's voice was suddenly angry. He glared at David.

David didn't respond. He tore his eyes away from the door and sank down into a chair beside the table. He stared at Bocelli miserably.

Blaine turned to look apologetically at Kurt, "He's upset; I don't trust him to be on his own right now. I don't even know if I trust him not to leave the parking lot without me right now."

"Just put your shoes on and go as is, I'll go grab your clothes." Kurt flitted back into his room and folded Blaine's things into a neat pile before returning to the family room where Blaine was sitting on the floor, stuffing his feet into a pair of Sperry's.

Blaine offered a strained smile when Kurt pulled him back to his feet and handed off the pile of clothes, "Thanks. I'll call you later today. Love you."

Kurt touched a quick kiss to Blaine's cheek and watched from the doorway until Blaine stepped into the elevator and disappeared from sight. He closed the door quietly and turned to face another surprise, "David, are you… crying?"

Dave blinked hard, but the red of his eyes and the wet tracks already staining his cheeks were undeniable. He dropped his face into his hands.

Kurt stood for a moment by the door before quietly pulling out the chair beside David and sitting down.

"Kurt, I fucked up so bad." David whimpered. He fisted his hands into his eyes and sniffled.

"Yeah, you did." Kurt sat back in his chair and stared through the gilded bars of the birdcage, "If you were hoping for some pity, I'm not offering any."

"I don't deserve any." David mumbled.

Kurt sighed and pushed himself out of his seat and crossed the apartment to his room. He pulled out the box of little unfolded paper sheets and returned to the family room where David had taken up residence on the couch. Kurt sat down on the floor wordlessly and pulled the lid off the plastic container. He folded three perfect cranes before David spoke.

"When he was sixteen everyone he knew turned their backs on him."

Kurt remained silent; folded another perfect bird.

"And I just did the same thing to him—he opened himself up and I fucking ruined it," David dropped his face into his hands again.

Kurt still said nothing. He folded four more birds.

"How do you and Blaine do it?" David's voice was quiet when he finally spoke again, "How do you not ruin everything?"

"We do out best and hope for the best," Kurt smoothed his finger over an already perfect crease line.

"And what do you do if everything turns to shit?"

Kurt's fingers stilled for a moment, "You hope like crazy that love's enough to get you through… if you believe in a god, then I suppose that's when you start praying."

David was quiet for a minute, "…you think he'll forgive me?"

"That's his decision."

Five cranes later, David spoke again, "…one thousand of those things is supposed to get you a wish, right?"

"That's the idea," Kurt shrugged and wordlessly slid a small stack of unfolded sheets of paper across the floor.

David slid down into the space beside Kurt and took up one of the sheets. He started folding—following Kurt's example slowly.

"You don't believe in God and stuff, right?" David glanced toward Kurt.

"No."

"So do you make wishes on the cranes?"

Kurt set aside another finished one, "I didn't say that."

"Do you wish for things to have gone differently?"

"You can't change what's already done, Dave."

"Do you wish for Blaine to get better?"

Kurt closed his eyes, took a leveling breath, "Wishes and prayers are for people who think that begging pieces of paper and statues and candles they paid five dollars to light are going to somehow magically make things different. They're for people who are desperate and don't know what else to do."

David put down his single finished crane—lopsided and a little crumpled, "What do you do then?"

"What do you mean what do I do?"

"You can't just—" David let out a frustrated grunt; dropped down the crane he had been attempting to fold, "—you can't just hope. That's not—you need to  _do_  something."

"That's all you can do," Kurt put down another perfect crane, "… if Trip wants to come back, he will."

"I shouldn't try to talk to him? Fix things?"

"I didn't say that," Kurt twisted around and pulled the abandoned Target bag off of the couch, "What I meant was you do everything you can do, but in the end there are certain decisions you don't get to make, David."

"I hate this," David scrubbed at his eyes, "I fucking hate this."

"…I know." Kurt stood and moved toward the TV, careful not to crush any of the finished birds.

"What're you doing?" David mumbled, looking up at Kurt with a frown.

"We're not going to think about cancer or unrequited feelings or regrets or anything. We're going to sit here, make paper cranes, watch  _The Breakfast Club_ , and eat cold pizza for lunch."

"That's your solution to all of this?" David stared at him incredulously.

"That's my way of getting us through the next few hours." Kurt turned his attention to the television, glancing down occasionally as he folded another bird.

David leaned back against the couch; picked up his half-completed crane, "…Then what?"

"Focus on the next two hours, Dave."

David was quiet beside Kurt for another forty-five minutes before he spoke again, "…Kurt?"

"Hm?"

"Two thousand cranes, right?"

"That's right."

David cleared his throat awkwardly, "I know you don't think…would you be pissed if I made a wish anyway?"

"It's stupid, David. They're paper birds," Kurt glanced over at Dave's crestfallen expression and sighed, "… but it's none of my business what you do. You can worship Bocelli if you want, so long as you're not singing or chanting or something to him in the middle of the night, I don't care."

"…What if I made a wish for you and Blaine, too? Then would you care?"

Kurt put down the paper in his hands, "Like I said, you can do what you want."

David turned one of the cranes over between his fingers, "This morning… things were good, right?"

Kurt sighed, "Yes, things were really good."

David turned to face Kurt, "I just…there's probably a lot of stupid shit I'd want to wish for, but…all I really want is for things to be good, not even great or perfect or whatever, just…good."

Kurt turned his gaze back down to the paper in his hands. He finished folding it slowly until a finished, glossy red crane sat perched on his palm, "…I want that, too."


	30. Chapter 26

p style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">Twelve days after the fall out between Trip and David, Blaine and his mother were driving home from a doctor's appointment.

Blaine rested his head against the window. The glass was so cold that it almost hurt, but he didn't move away.

"Honey, are you feeling alright?" His mother's voice was strained with an effort not to cry; a thin attempt at keeping it together for Blaine's sake.

"Fine." Blaine took in a deep breath through his nose and let it out his mouth. He was vaguely aware that they were braked at a stoplight.

"Do you want to just go home today?"

"…No. We can go to the church," He sat up straighter and stared down at the red paper folder on his lap, "I…I need some time to think about stuff anyway."

She glanced at the folder, too; reached over and squeezed his knee, "You're going to be okay, baby; everything's going to be fine."

Blaine nodded mutely.

Going to the church was his mother's thing, really. They'd done it after nearly every doctor's appointment. She would disappear into the chapel or one of the little secluded corners of the church to light candles while Blaine was left to his own devices once he'd assured her at least three times that he was fine.

Usually he alternated between walking around the perimeter of the church looking at the station of the cross placards mounted on the walls or sitting in a pew and listening to the choir practice while his gaze drifted over dusty, stained glass windows. Today, he hoped for a choir practice; something to fill his head up.

Much to Blaine's disappointment, there was no music playing when they arrived; just the muted sounds of a few pairs of feet and the occasional sound of someone clearing their throat. There was apparently something happening before their arrival, though, because the air was thick and heavy with incense. The smell made Blaine's eyes burn and his head buzz.

"Sweetheart, is the smell—"

"It's okay…I'm okay," Blaine settled himself down in a pew a few rows from the front.

His mother watched him for a moment more before leaning in and kissing his cheek, "I'll be where I always am if you need anything. If you get dizzy though you can—"

"Call. I know," Blaine met her eyes and managed a small smile for her, "Go ahead."

He listened to the tap-tap-tap of her shoes on the floor until they faded and everything was quiet again.

Usually Blaine preferred a seat somewhere in the back, but for whatever reason, he'd opted to wander in a little closer than usual. He watched three elderly women in the very front row—blue-gray hair on top of bowed heads and rosary beads sliding slowly through arthritic fingers.

They were there every time Blaine was no matter when he had an appointment—always with their rosaries and their bowed heads and their silly old woman floral print dresses and, though he's never actually gotten close enough to check, Blaine imagined they all had that old lady smell of rose-scented lotion and perfume.

And he wondered every week what it was that they could possibly need to pray for so much. He figured they'd spent enough hours huddled together in their place to be forgiven for whatever transgressions they felt they were guilty of…maybe now they were just hiding out to avoid committing anything condemnation worthy before their days were up.

He shook his head. Those were the sort of thoughts that, when voiced, got him into trouble. They were the sorts of thoughts that had been deemed too morbid and too heavy by his parents.

" _You should be thinking about college, honey, and sports and music. You get yourself too wound up in all of those dark ideas."_ Is what his mother liked to say.

He opted not to say any of those things to Kurt—Kurt was stressed enough just keeping afloat as it were. He could probably say them to Trip, but he was still trying to reel Trip back in from his sudden slip back into some old habits and he worried that musing over death and sin and hell were not the sort of things someone a little emotionally unstable needed to be hearing.

So he kept it all to himself; bottled it up and tried to pack it away with the other things he tried not to think about like his father not being able to look at him when he first came out and wet pavement outside a Sadie Hawkins dance and nightmares and 'you have cancer' and 'there was a mix up with filing, we're so sorry' and all the other creepy, crawly, heavy things that were best kept somewhere not so accessible.

But sometimes…sometimes he opened up that box in his mind and let himself look at what was inside and other times it just opened on its own.

He still had the folder with him—stuffed with too many brochures and glossy flyers and information printed off of the Internet on goldenrod colored paper. He flipped it open and slowly thumbed through the pages.

He knew what it said—they'd gone through all of it with the doctor before they left. Details, of course, were long gone, but he knew the important things.

He needed to take time to think.

He needed to talk and ask questions whenever they arose.

He needed to remember that he had medical professionals working on him who would do everything in their power to make everything go smoothly.

He needed to make some decisions. Big decisions. Frightening decisions. Decisions that required him to open up the box of Things-You-Should-Probably-Let-Be and start thinking about them again.

He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply—let his mind get a little fuzzy with the smoky, perfumed smell still hanging in the air. He pushed the folder off of his knees and lay down in the pew.

It wasn't comfortable—the whole thing was made of wood that smelled faintly of varnish and lemon-scented cleaner and it hurt his hip and his shoulder and even the side of his head. He didn't mind the discomfort though; he tucked an arm underneath his cheek to get away from the lemon-varnish smell and tried to think.

In truth, he'd made these decisions a long time ago. He'd been cementing them into place for days and weeks and months. But it had always been Just In Case.

It was written down in the back of the leather bound journal back home—buried underneath his paint box on the top shelf in his closet. All he really had to do was transfer certain little parts to the forms the doctor had given him…but still…

He didn't know how that thought ended. Just 'but still….'

He needed a plan; one of Trip's organizational structures set into steps that were neat and orderly and clean. Something to keep everyone calm. He inhaled another breath laced with incense and wood polish and started to make his mental list.

_Step 1: Lay here and settle down_

_Step 2: Settle down mom_

_Step 3: Tell dad_

_Step 4: Make quiet exit while dad re-settles down mom_

_Step 5: Write that letter to Kurt_

_Step 6: Ask Trip to deal with the letter_

_Step 7: Make a new set of steps for how to tell Kurt_

_Step 8: Tell Kurt_

_Step 9: …_

He had to stop and go back because he'd definitely already forgotten the first seven steps of the plan. In the end, he paired it down to something even he could remember.

_Step 1: Write the letter_

_Step 2: Proceed from there_

He recited the steps to himself over and over again until he was sure they were locked into place. He considered thinking about what to actually say in the letter, but that seemed like too much work for the moment…he contemplated praying a little or going on a walk around the church or maybe going to ask the old women what they did here everyday and why they—

"Blaine! Honey, are you alright?"

His mother's voice startled him into opening his eyes.

She was leaned over him—her face pale and laced with concern, though she relaxed a little when their eyes met, "Sweetie, do you not feel well?"

"I'm fine, just…thinking," Blaine pushed himself upright; rubbed his eyes, "Are you done?"

"With the candles, yes," she slipped into the space beside him, "I wouldn't mind sitting here with you for a few minutes though. Would that be alright?"

"Sure," Blaine managed a smile.

She folded her hands in her lap and stared toward the front solemnly.

Watching his mother, Blaine was oddly reminded of the three old women ahead of them. He didn't like it. He tipped his head down onto her shoulder partially because he knew she would like it and partially for himself. He couldn't see the tears, but he felt the shudder in her shoulder so, for good measure, he reached over and pulled one of her hands into his.

She twisted in and wrapped both arms around him much more fiercely than Blaine had expected. She rubbed his back; murmured in his ear, "Everything's going to be okay, baby, don't be scared. Everything's going to be okay."

It took her embrace for Blaine to realize that the shaking shoulders were not hers but his, and suddenly he was also aware of hot tears burning his cheeks. He wrapped his arms around her even tighter; took comfort in her hand smoothing soft circles on his back and the stream of assurances she murmured in his ear.

Once he'd settled down, she still held onto him, one hand rubbing soft circles on his back. Their position was as awkward and uncomfortable as Blaine had been earlier when he was lying down, but he knew she wouldn't pull away until he did. And he wasn't ready to move just yet. He may have been eighteen and capable of making adult decisions, sure, but sometimes…sometimes he just needed his mother.

* * *

Exactly thirteen days after the birthday party, Kurt's body finally decided it had had enough.

Kurt was used to the telltale signs of a virus coming on: a tickle in the back of his throat; a fatigue in his limbs; a strange foggy quality to his thinking. If any of those things had happened, Kurt would have been prepared for the oncoming sickness. Instead, it hit him full force like a freight train on a very unfortunate Thursday morning. He was chilled and achy and the fact that he was able to put on clothes at all was a feat he was a little stunned by and would have probably been proud of had his mind not been overwhelmed with just trying to move onto the next step of getting ready for the day.

David was up and seated at the kitchen table when Kurt dragged himself out of his room. He looked up from his untouched breakfast and frowned, "You look like hell."

"Still better than you," Kurt snapped. He stared into the fridge but ended up just shutting it again.

"I made coffee." David motioned a hand toward the pot on the counter.

Kurt poured himself a cup and slumped down into the chair across from Dave. He rested his elbows on the table and wrapped his hands tightly around the mug, "Couldn't sleep again?"

David shook his head; stared morosely down at his own cup.

"I'm going to lunch with him today," Kurt mumbled.

David looked up and stared at Kurt with a combination of desperation and jealousy, "You are?"

Kurt nodded; sniffled, "Any messages you want me to relay this time?"

David sat back in his chair; turned his head to watch Bocelli in his cage, "…no."

"No?" Kurt echoed, not sure if maybe he'd started hallucinating. David had been desperately trying to find a way to get to Trip in anyway he could—letters, calls, e-mails, messages delivered by Kurt and Blaine, flowers—but all to no avail except to irritate Trip enough to scribble out some fairly nasty notes out in response that Kurt could never bring himself to actually give to David.

David let out a long sigh, "He's made it pretty clear he's done with the whole thing."

"Have you tried actually going to see him, Dave?" Kurt took a sip of his coffee and grimaced; it tasted like too hot, dirty water.

David nodded, "Yeah, but the Warblers won't let me near him…it's good, I guess…that he has friends who are trying to take care of him."

"Blaine says he's been alright…but a little moodier than usual." Kurt offered.

David nodded but looked as depressed as ever.

Kurt glanced at his phone, "I've got to go; I'll see you tonight?"

David blinked himself out of whatever reverie he'd been involved in, "You're going to work?"

Kurt stood and blinked for a few seconds when his vision blurred, "No, I'm going to class. I work after lunch."

"You look like you're dying."

"I do not. I just need a little Advil and some water and I'll be fine," Kurt let go of the back of his chair and moved to the closet to pull out a jacket.

"If you set foot into your work, they're going to send you home."

"They will not," Kurt glared at Dave, "If anyone's getting sent home it'll be you because your misery is practically contagious."

David looked back down at his plate.

Kurt sighed, "I'll see what I can wheedle out of Trip and I'll report back."

"Thanks." Dave mumbled.

Kurt wasn't entirely sure how it was possible, but by the end of his lectures he felt even sicker. To make matters worse, he had a text from Trip.

_Car problems. Do you want to cancel or come get me?_

Kurt contemplated cancelling, but in the end typed out a quick message as he got back in his car.

_Be there in twenty._

The roads were icy and the drive to Dalton was slow, but Kurt didn't mind—everything felt a little slow, really. He dry swallowed three more Advil once he was pulled into the parking lot outside the dorms.

He called Trip's phone and listened to it ring once…twice…a third time…a fourth…a fifth…

" _Not here. Leave a message."_

Kurt let out an irritated sigh, "Would it kill you to say your name so that people actually know if they called the right number? You are not a cool, jaded, badass. You're an obnoxious asshole with a stupid voicemail and now I have to get out of my car and come find you. Why are we friends?"

Kurt hung up, feeling decidedly a little better, but groaned as he left the warmth of his car to cross the parking lot. He pulled his jacket in a little more tightly around himself as he approached the doors—the halls in the dorms were notoriously cold.

His irritation lessened as he made his way up the steps. There was something comforting about being back in the familiar building…he paused outside of Blaine's old room and smiled fondly at the numbers. By the time he reached Trip's room (or what he was fairly sure was Trip's room anyway, he was in a better mood, and to make things even easier, the door was ajar.

"What the hell is the point of you even owning a phone if you're never going to answer it, Trip? I, being a near saint, drove all the way out here to pick you up  _and_  I came inside to get you, so you better have your sorry butt ready to—oh God."

Kurt stared, mouth agape, because the boy in the bed was most definitely not Trip, though his smirk was just as cunning and his eyes roved over Kurt's form in that same predatory fashion Trip had always been so fond of, "You...um, you're not Tommy or Trip…"

The boy's eyes finally met Kurt's; he leaned back on his elbows on the bed, bare chest exposed, "Neither are you, and I'm assuming you're not one of Tom's basketball buddies either. Are you one of Trip's playthings?"

Kurt managed to snap his mouth shut. He stood up a little taller and rested a hand on his hip, "No, but apparently you are…do you have a name?"

"Sebastian," The boy's smirk only grew; clearly amused, "What about you, do you have a name, or should I just call you gorgeous?"

"It's Kurt," Kurt muttered. He glanced around the room, "Where's Trip?"

"Bathroom," Sebastian nodded toward the open door Kurt had just come in through; he motioned a hand at the bed, "Now that we're acquainted, feel free to make yourself a little more comfortable while you wait."

Kurt sniffed; inspected his fingernails, "I think I'll just stand right here."

Sebastian shrugged; looked toward the window, "So if you're not fucking him then what exactly is your business with Morgan?"

"Lunch." Kurt spoke flatly.

"Hm," Sebastian looked amused.

A minute later, Trip came strolling through the door; his hair wet from a shower and his hands still busy pulling a shirt on over his head. He jumped a little at the sight of Kurt, "What're you doing here?"

"I take it you haven't been keeping an eye on your phone." Kurt snapped.

Trip glanced toward the phone on his desk and Sebastian in his bed before shrugging, "I've been busy."

"I can see that," Kurt looked pointedly at Sebastian and then back at Trip, "So are you coming or can I just go?"

"Give me five seconds to pull a pair of pants on and we can go."

Kurt let out an irritated sigh.

"I'll buy you lunch and everything, calm down," Trip rolled his eyes before looking back at Sebastian, "Are you still here for a reason?"

Seb raised an eyebrow, "I wasn't sure if you had plans to skip class or not, but now I see you've got other plans, too."

Trip shrugged and turned his attention to the closet.

Sebastian smirked as though mildly amused by Trip's coldness.

Trip pulled on a pair of jeans and his shoes before finally looking back at Seb, "Key's on the nightstand. Bring it down to Tom in the Senior Commons when you leave."

Sebastian tilted his head, "You gonna be around between class and Warbler practice?"

"Dunno. See ya around." Trip turned and disappeared from the room without another word, leaving Kurt to scramble to button his coat again before leaving the room.

"Bye, Kurt, hope to see you around again sometime soon." Sebastian gave him a coy smile.

Kurt mumbled a quick 'bye' before half-jogging after Trip.

Once in the car, they drove in silence apart from the radio—Trip seemed content not to say anything, and Kurt was still trying to wrap his head around what he'd just witnessed.

It wasn't until they were seated in a booth at their agreed upon restaurant and their menus had been taken away that Trip chose to speak.

He had a kids' menu and three crayons occupying his attention, but he glanced up at Kurt, "You look like hell."

"You have a hickey the size of Texas on your neck." Kurt retorted icily.

Trip shrugged; turned his attention back to coloring.

Kurt stared hard at the top of Trip's head, "Who is he?"

"Sebastian…Smythe, I think. Transferred in a couple weeks ago."

"You're screwing around with him and you don't even know his last name?"

Trip shrugged, "I've slept with people I've known less about."

"Are you two dat—"

Trip snorted.

"Right," Kurt was quiet for a moment, "…why are you doing this, Trip?"

"I like to color."

"You know what I'm asking about."

Trip didn't look up, "He's good in bed, I'm good in bed, and we both have a free period third hour. It's a decent set up for everyone involved."

Kurt sighed, "…Flip that over. I'll play tic-tac-toe with you."

Trip did as instructed and pushed a purple crayon across the table to Kurt. They played in silence until their food came.

Kurt stirred his spoon listlessly through his soup.

Trip was busily inhaling French fries, but he paused to watch Kurt, "I told you I'd pay for your meal, and you bought like the third cheapest thing you could get. Is not eating it your way of getting back at me for being an ass?"

"No, if that was my plan I would have bought everything and not eaten any of it," Kurt gave up on stirring his spoon around and sat back, "I'm just not very hungry."

Trip nodded, "You look as bad as Blaine right now."

"I'm going to choose to assume that's a compliment," Kurt glared.

Trip popped another fry into his mouth in response.

"I haven't seen you in awhile…I'm a little shocked to be saying this, but I miss having you over for homework."

Trip shrugged, "We've still been doing coffee."

"I guess…" Kurt picked up his water glass and took a sip, "…you still doing okay?"

Trip nodded, "Little more time on my hands now that sectionals are over...at least until practice for Regionals starts heating up."

"Judging by the smell of your clothes, you've been spending every minute of that free time smoking." Kurt glanced at Trip's shirt distastefully.

"Homework, smoking, and screwing; living the dream." Trip laughed, but it sounded strained.

"You're disgusting."

Trip grinned, "I'm Trip Morgan."

"What's the difference?"

Trip chewed noisily and with his mouth open before swallowing down another mouthful of food and winking.

"Why did we agree to having lunch together?" Kurt mumbled, rubbing his eyes blearily.

"Because Blaine lives off of plain noodles and saltine crackers and makes a shitty lunch date," Trip turned his attention back to coloring, "And I had nothing better to do."

"Except screw around with a transfer whose last name you don't even know."

"Except that," Trip agreed.

Kurt shook his head and turned his attention back to trying to force a few spoonfuls of soup into his mouth.

After a few minutes, Trip got antsy—shifting in his seat and picking at what was left of the food on his plate, "Can I ask you something and you'll promise to answer the question and then drop the subject?"

Kurt studied Trip's face, "If it's about David…He's okay. He's sad."

Trip looked mildly relieved to not have to ask, but then his eyes were on his plate again.

"…He misses you."

"Don't." Trip snapped.

"He does, Trip, he's been moping around for weeks. Maybe if you'd just—"

"Hummel, I told you to drop it, now drop it!" Trip glared hard at Kurt.

Kurt glanced around at the few people sitting near them who had looked up at Trip's sudden outburst before looking back at Trip, "Fine."

Trip glared at him for another few seconds before relaxing, "Just…lets talk about something else."

"Like what?"

"Like what is Kurt Hummel gonna do with a whole day off?" Trip prodded the fries left on his plate but made no attempt to eat anymore.

"I don't have a day off. I still have work and the gym with Reese and I'm going over to Blaine's for a little while tonight…he had a doctor's appointment and he won't say anything about it, so I'm going to go weasel it out of him in person." Kurt managed another two mouthfuls of soup.

"You're joking, right?" Trip raised an eyebrow.

"No…usually he'll tell me a little bit about his appointments, but he literally won't say anything about it and—"

"I meant are you joking about your entire schedule."

Kurt frowned, "Why would that be funny?"

"You honestly think they'll let you in the store today? Or that you won't drop dead at the gym?" Trip smiled a little, but it looked almost sympathetic, "Do you need me to tell you again how incredibly god-awful you look right now?"

"I do  _not,_  and I'll be fine," Kurt growled, "I can't just put my life on hold because I have a little bit of a stuffy nose."

"What do you think is going to happen if you take one fucking afternoon off, Hummel?"

"I don't need it off!" Kurt let out an exasperated sigh, "I am  _fine_."

"Right," Trip rolled his eyes, "Fine, whatever; go to work and scare all of the customers away and go to the gym with the peanut butter cup, but do you really think it's a good idea to get within one hundred feet of Blaine and his piece of shit immune system with your 'little bit of a stuffy nose'?"

Kurt opened his mouth to argue, but then shut it again; bit his lip. Trip was—as much as it pained Kurt to admit it—right, "…Maybe I'll hold off on going to see Blaine."

"Unless you want him to die from pneumonia." Trip agreed.

"Not funny."

"Not joking."

Kurt felt the sudden ridiculous urge to cry, "How long do you think I'll be sick for?"

"Are we admitting now that you're truly sick?" Trip quirked an eyebrow as he flagged down the waitress.

"Sick enough that I need to keep away from Blaine," Kurt's voice wavered.

Trip frowned, "Hey, come on, don't get all wishy-washy on me, I'm no good at handling that."

"I just want to know what's bothering him." Kurt sniffled. In all honesty feeling sick sort of made him weirdly more emotional than normal anyway, but adding to it that he couldn't see Blaine was seriously taxing on his will power to keep from crying.

Trip groaned, "Okay, okay, okay—tell you what, I'll check in on Blanderson as soon as my car is in working order, deal?"

Kurt shrugged and kept worrying his lip between his teeth.

"…and to keep you distracted and busy with your meddling…" Trip hesitated but finally let out a long sigh, "Tell David that I want him to move on and…and be happy. You can tell him I said that, alright?"

"He doesn't want to move on, he wants—"

"Then  _make_  him move on. Set him up or shove him into a club somewhere or something. I'm trying to do you a little bit of a favor here," Trip snapped. He shoved a few crumpled bills and some change onto the table beside the check before getting up out of the booth.

Kurt sat for another minute to regain his composure before following in Trip's path out to the car.

Trip was leaned against the passenger door; a cigarette in his mouth and his hands shoved deep in his pockets, "Tick tock, Hummel. The sooner you get to work, the sooner they can kick you right back out."

"Ha ha, you're hilarious." Kurt unlocked the doors and slid into the driver's seat. His heart still ached with the realization that he'd have to be keeping away from Blaine, "…do you know of any ways to get rid of a virus?"

"I have two words for you," Trip was staring forlornly out the window at the cigarette he'd had to abandon, "Bed rest."

"I have two for you, too," Kurt looked over his shoulder as he backed out of his parking space but managed to shoot Trip an icy look, "Fuck and you."

"That was three."

"I thought you were trying to talk me out of my misery," Kurt grumbled.

"Blind man leading a blind man, buddy, I'm no good at making people happy."

Kurt glanced over at Trip, "You know that's not true."

"I told you we were done talking about David, Kurt." Trip sank low in his seat; folded his arms.

"I was referring to Blaine."

Neither one of them said anything else for the rest of the drive.

* * *

Trip had been right. The second Kurt had showed up in the backroom, Darcy had taken one look at him and sent him home, and Reese had adamantly refused to let Kurt go to the gym with him. With little else to be said, Kurt had slunk back to his car and started making a mental plan for how to proceed through the next day or two (he would not,  _could_  not be sick for more than two days).

In the end, he found himself on the couch folding the final set of the paper cranes he needed for work.

The things were steadily taking over the apartment—overflowing from boxes and covering the table and lined up along the walls. David had turned into a better helper than Kurt could have ever imagined him to be once Trip was gone.

Kurt's work was slower and a little more sloppy than usual, but it also took up more mental energy (which Kurt was eternally grateful for). He tried to plan out what else he would do for the next couple days… there were Skype dates with Rachel to figure out the last minute details before she came home with Quinn a week from next Saturday for Christmas, Finn needed help writing a final paper; if he was stealthy about it, Kurt figured he could steal a few more minor projects from work that he could do from home, and of course there were his finals to study for…

Somewhere around his eighth crane and his mental plan for how to go about studying for finals—or at least that's when he assumed it happened—Kurt fell asleep.

When he woke up next, he found himself snuggled into the couch—one paper crane still half-finished caught in his hand, and a blanket draped over his body. He sat up and groaned—the medicine had definitely worn off and he was feeling the full affects of his illness.

His head ached, his throat was sore, his ears hurt—he stopped cataloguing his pains because, frankly, he just felt like shit.

David appeared beside him with three Advil and a glass of water, "I'd ask how you're feeling, but I think I can tell."

Kurt muttered his gratitude for the pills and water.

"Did they let you go into work?" David sat down in the open space where Kurt's legs had just been.

"They let me in and kicked me right back out." Kurt hugged the blanket around his shoulders a little tighter.

"Did you go to class and stuff?" David's eyes drifted over Kurt's newest cranes piled beside his feet.

"If by 'and stuff' you mean going to lunch with Trip, then yes, I did," Kurt rubbed his eyes, "…what time is it?"

"Almost seven."

"What?" Kurt's eyes went wide and he let out a groan, "I never even told Blaine I wasn't coming over."

"Your phone's been quiet since I got home." David shrugged.

Kurt could see his phone on the floor a few feet in front of him, but the effort to actually get off of the couch and pick it up seemed like a little too much effort, "…Trip's having car troubles. I had to go to Dalton to pick him up."

David nodded but said nothing.

Kurt shifted awkwardly in his place, not sure how much to say, "…He, um…he asked me to tell you something."

David turned to face him full on; his expression a mixture of hope and dread, "What'd he say?"

"He wants you to move on…he wants you to be happy." Kurt kept his expression carefully calm.

David's face fell; he shook his head stubbornly, "I don't want to move on. I just want him."

Kurt sighed, "I know."

David studied Kurt's face, "…you're not telling me something."

Kurt took a drink from his water glass to save him from speaking.

"Kurt, come on, tell me."

Kurt stared down at his lap, "I really don't think you want me to do that."

"Would you like it if I knew something about Blaine and didn't tell you?" Dave shot back.

Kurt fidgeted with the edge of his blanket, "Trip is… Trip's been sleeping with someone else. At Dalton."

Kurt immediately wished he had eased into the news a little more slowly because David looked as though he'd been slapped in the face, "W-what?"

"I'm sorry, Dave," Kurt sighed, "I don't think it means anything to him, it's—"

"Just a warm body," David mumbled, suddenly looking utterly defeated.

Kurt nodded, but the movement made it feel like his brain was being jarred inside his skull.

David let out a long breath, "…other than that…how is he?"

Kurt contemplated scooting in an inch closer to comfort Dave, but decided with his current state of health, he probably wouldn't appreciate the gesture, "He's okay. He's smoking a lot again, but he's doing well outside of that as far as I could tell."

David stared down at the paper cranes again and didn't say anything.

Kurt could feel the medicine finally starting to kick in—his limbs felt a little more movable and his head didn't feel like it was going to explode, "…May I suggest something?"

David shrugged noncommittally.

"Let me set you up—just for one date."

David turned his head to give Kurt a cynical frown, "...with who?"

"My friend Reese—he's sweet, he's gorgeous, he's single, and he just whined about needing to meet more guys like two days ago."

David looked positively miserable; "You think that's it then with Trip?"

"I don't know, David, he's not the easiest person to get to come around, but in the mean time it can't hurt to put yourself out there a little." Kurt insisted; finally getting up to retrieve his phone.

"You're calling him now?" David looked nervous.

"No, I'm sending him a text to tell him it was probably a good thing that he made me keep away from the gym and about how my amazing roommate who is taking care of me while I'm bedridden." Kurt replied coolly, already pulling up Reese's contact information.

"I gave you a blanket and Advil…and this is the couch."

"Never hurts to play up your good traits," Kurt typed out the message to Reese slowly—his eyes still a little bleary and the brightness of his phone's screen making his head ache a little, "Like building a resume."

"I'm not…I don't want to start dating anyone, Kurt."

"All three of us can go out to coffee and you can see what you think," Kurt hit send on his message, but rolled his eyes, "Or you could always get Sebastian's number for even fewer strings attached."

"Who?"

Kurt flinched and immediately regretted the words. He wondered vaguely if this was how Blaine felt when he said something he didn't mean to, "…no one."

David watched Kurt squirm uncomfortably, "That's the guy, isn't it? The one Trip's sleeping with."

Kurt bit his lip and nodded, "Yes. I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking, I didn't mean—"

"Is he good to him?" David cut Kurt off; his gaze intent.

"They…I don't think Trip puts much feeling into it. He doesn't really know him."

"He didn't know me either." David mumbled, slumping back into the couch.

"No, it's different…he seems like he just genuinely doesn't care with this guy, and Sebastian is, well, to phrase it gently…a total slut. And he has douche bag hair."

"You saw him?"

Kurt wanted to kick himself because he seriously just needed to stop talking, "Yeah, but, like I said, he has skeezy hair and a skeezy smile and overall he looks like one of those slimy crony type characters on  _Gossip Girl_ —you know the guys that stand in the background in totally clichéd Polos and chinos and laugh when Dan Humphrey or someone gets made fun of? That's him. Oh! And he also tries to talk like Chuck Bass—you know all slow and sort of sultry, but he can't pull it off and it's just—ew—I'm going to stop talking about him because it's making me nauseous."

David managed to force a shadow of a smile, "I don't watch Gossip Girl, but thanks for trying to make me feel better about it."

"So is that a yes to potential coffee date with Reese?"

David rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, "Can it wait for a while…you're not really firing on all cylinders right now, anyway."

"Sure, Dave." Kurt smiled a little and nudged David's foot with his—the easiest contact he could make without spreading too many germs.

David nudged his foot back and smiled more fully, "You should rest or something—you'll get better faster."

"I don't need rest—I need a new immune system."

"I'll keep an eye out for one but until then maybe just try going to bed for a bit."

"Fine," Kurt grumbled. He could still fold his cranes and Skype with Rachel from his bed, so the semi-bed rest wouldn't be all that miserable.

He gathered up a few sheets of paper and got to his feet, but he'd barely made it an inch from the couch when his phone went off. He smiled a little at the text.

_Glad to hear you're not on your deathbed. And roommate sounds like a sweet guy…do I get to meet him ever ;)? –Reese_

Not a second later, Kurt had a second text that made him smile even more.

_Heard you're sick. Wish I could come take care of you! Sending all my love and also cough drops and tea with honey and lots and lots of kisses XOXOXOXOXX -Blaine_

And then a third text that actually made him laugh.

_P.S. XOXOXOXOXOXOXXXXXXXX_

He glanced back over his shoulder to where David was still sitting on the couch, staring glumly at his knees, "David?"

Dave looked up expectantly.

"Take a breath," Kurt smiled, "We're both going to feel better. Just give it time."

* * *

It took two days after its initial death rattle for Trip to get a diagnosis on what exactly was wrong with his car and another three for the problem to be fixed. It still made a little bit of a weird humming sound when he drove, but Trip was willing to take his chances driving to the Anderson's house.

He needed out of Dalton. He was getting claustrophobic and restless and that, in turn, was making him mean and cold and the Warblers weren't very appreciative of his brusqueness, nor was Sebastian.

Blaine was good at settling him down. Whether they chose to sit in silence or just talk about nothing, Blaine just sort of knew how to make everything a little bit better. There was someone else who had been even better at it, but Trip didn't want to think about that.

He pulled haphazardly up to the curb in front of Blaine's house and cursed the cold while he rang the doorbell a few too many times in a row.

Normally, Trip prided himself on having a decent poker face, but he'd be lying if he didn't say he jumped when he saw who answered the door.

Helen Anderson frowned at him from the other side of the screen, "I remember you."

Trip managed to regain his composure. He couldn't quite find it in himself to be as rude as he'd been during the summer, but he managed a smirk, "I'm a memorable person."

"If you're here to see Blaine, he's not feeling well." Helen's frown deepened as she watched Trip through the still-closed screen door.

Trip let out an irritated sigh because he really didn't feel like dealing with homophobic, bitchy old women, and it was fucking freezing out, "He knew I was coming over. He asked me to."

Helen stared at him for another few seconds before stepping aside and beckoning for him to come in.

Trip stepped through the door and toed his shoes off, "Thanks."

Helen stood a few feet away from Trip with her arms folded. She appraised him with pursed lips, "You look slightly more presentable than the last time we met, Mr. Morgan. I trust Dalton's been a good influence on you."

Trip glanced down at his uniform, "It's the blazer—makes even the worst of us look like decent guys."

"Hm," Helen didn't smile at the joke, "Blaine's in the family room. He's lying down."

Trip saluted Helen and grinned as he made his way out of the entryway. His smile softened a little when he made it to the family room.

Blaine was stretched out on the couch, his eyes on the television, but he seemed only half-focused. He looked up and smiled when he saw Trip, though, "Hey."

Trip sat down in an open chair, "Hey. You actually look a little better than your boyfriend did last time I saw him."

Blaine pushed himself up a little higher on the couch, "I've been Skyping with him—webcams don't do much for showing details, but he looks like he's been getting a lot better. He's going into work today…. speaking of which, shouldn't you be in class?"

Trip shrugged, "You were the one who asked me to come over. You never specified when."

"Trip." Blaine frowned.

"I needed to get out of there for a bit. I'm suffocating," Trip loosened his tie as though it were the source of his sudden discomfort, "I'll go back for my classes after lunch. I sort of promised your boyfriend I'd come check in on you when I got the chance."

Blaine nodded and sank back lower on the couch.

Trip watched him as he drew his legs in a little closer to himself, "You feeling okay?"

"Mm…vertigo." Blaine mumbled; closing his eyes for a moment.

Trip glanced toward the front of the house to ensure Helen wasn't within earshot, "I might have some stuff in my car if you're out."

"I'm not…I just haven't been using it lately," Blaine opened his eyes again, "Prescribed medications only right now…. besides, my grandma has the nose of a…a…"

"Dog?"

"Sure," Blaine smiled a little, "She'd know if I was smoking anything."

Trip nodded, "Didn't know your grandma was coming out here."

"She was going to come for Christmas," Blaine rubbed his eyes and yawned, "…but she ended up coming out a couple weeks early instead."

"Hm."

They were both silent for a few minutes.

Trip looked between the television and Blaine, "You're quiet."

"I'm dizzy," Blaine managed a small smile, "…and also working my way up to asking you to do me a favor."

Trip sat up a little straighter in his seat, "I probably owe you a favor or two. What's up?"

Blaine pushed himself up slowly; blinking once he was fully sitting. He glanced toward the door leading out of the room before reaching over for a book sitting on the nightstand.

"Am I reading to you? I'm excellent at reading out loud." Trip slid forward in his seat to try and see the title on the book.

"No," Blaine shook an envelope out from between the pages, "…do you still have your key to Kurt and David's place?"

Trip's smile fell, "…yes…"

Blaine nodded slowly; turned the envelope over in his hands, "You know Kurt's New York box?"

"You mean that cardboard box of shit you two have together? Yes, I'm familiar with it," Trip shifted in his seat, "Are you going to tell me what the hell you want me to do or not?"

"The box is in the back left corner of his closet…I need you to put this in there…but don't tell him about it." Blaine held out the envelope toward Trip.

Trip stood abruptly; glared down at the envelope, "Blaine, what's going on?"

"I just need you to do this one thing for me, Trip, I swear that's—"

"Tell me what the fuck is happening," Trip snapped, "Kurt said you had a shitty appointment last week and your grandma's here and being sort of decent and now you're asking me to deliver some secret letter to your boyfriend."

Blaine withdrew his hand; settled the envelope on his knees, "…if I tell you, will you please just put the letter in the box?"

Trip remained standing, but he nodded.

"I'm not…I'm not good at explaining this stuff…" Blaine talked down to his lap, but then met Trip's eyes, "But I'll do my best."

Trip remained frozen as Blaine talked. He didn't provide words when Blaine lost them nor did he snap at him when he lost his place in his story. He stared at him in silence, his hands clenched at his sides, until Blaine finished explaining everything.

When he was done, neither one of them said anything. Trip was mildly aware of the sound of a Geico commercial playing behind them, but it sounded muted and distorted. He swallowed and somehow managed to find his voice, "Does Kurt know?"

Blaine looked back down at his knees. He shook his head a little.

"Fuck, Blaine." Trip hissed.

Blaine rubbed a thumb over Kurt's name printed neatly across the front of the envelope, "…so will you do it?"

"You have to tell him."

Blaine looked up and suddenly looked even more tired, "Trip, you promised if I told you that you'd do it."

"You're a fucking idiot, you know that?" Trip took a step away from Blaine, "A fucking  _idiot_."

"I'm going to tell him, Trip, just…not about the letter and—"

"And what, huh? You've been Skyping with him for almost a fucking week and haven't brought it up?" Trip was vaguely aware that he was yelling, "Who the fuck does that?"

"I'm not going to drop that on him over Skype, Trip, I wanted to give him a few days to—"

"To what? Be totally left in the dark with what's going on with you?" Trip glared at Blaine, "I thought you guys had some sort of fucking honesty pact or something. Neither one of you is—Jesus, forget it."

"Trip, please." Blaine pushed himself up off the couch; swayed precariously.

"I'll deliver your stupid letter, but you're not putting this off anymore. He deserves to know. People deserve to know what's happening when—Blaine?"

Blaine lifted a shaky hand and touched the side of his head as though suddenly disoriented. He opened his mouth to say something, but no words came.

Trip made it to him just in time to catch one shoulder as Blaine dropped to the floor.

* * *

Four day after his first horrible day of bed rest and twelve hours after his most recent Skype Date with Blaine, Kurt was back at work.

"Well look at you up and moving again—you're like a new man." Reese laughed when Kurt did a short pirouette for him.

"I feel fantastic," Kurt clapped his hands together—in all honesty he still had a little bit of a stuffy nose, but that was something easily brushed aside, "Ungodly amounts of sleep, a little exercise, and a vitamin plan sent to me by one Miss Rachel Berry did the trick. Please tell me you have ten thousand things for me to do."

"Always," Reese grinned and handed over a bucket of buttons, "Find every red button you can—any shade and any shape, but they have to be red and not pink or orange."

Kurt didn't question why; he was too happy to have something to occupy his mind again. He settled in beside Reese and started pulling buttons, "What'd you do without me?"

"Bemoaned your absence mostly—Darcy sang your praises."

Kurt quirked an eyebrow, "No."

"Yes," Reese smiled a little, "Well, sort of. She mostly bitched and moaned about how terrible we were all doing and how not having you around was really hurting the team. It was sort of…abusive criticism laced with compliments."

"I'll take what I can get," Kurt smiled a little, "Just wait until the crane display goes up—I'll be the most celebrated intern in the history of Anthropologie interns."

Reese snorted, "Of course—they'll erect a statue made of buttons and cork and recycled glass in the front window in your honor."

"Which I'm sure you will happily help construct," Kurt sniffed indignantly, "…and they might have to make a special thank you placard or something for David for helping me so much."

"Ah, yes, the roommate—you said you wanted to talk about him," Reese raised an eyebrow, "I am fully prepared to listen."

Kurt smiled, "Well, he's a former football player."

"Good."

"I knew you'd like that—he's…a little shy, I guess you could say. He's working on it."

"Shy's not bad," Reese nodded slowly, "And obviously a decent guy if he's living with you."

"Obviously," Kurt smiled and rolled his eyes, "Though I will be honest, his sense of fashion is non-existent…he wears Levi's."

Reese flinched, "Ouch."

"Deal breaker ouch?" Kurt glanced up from his project to watch Reese's expression.

"…No, just ouch," Reese rolled a gold button slowly between his fingers; his expression thoughtful.

"So the three of us getting coffee sometime isn't out of the question?" Kurt pressed.

"Definitely not." Reese met Kurt's gaze and winked.

Kurt laughed a little, but then his smile slipped, "I do have to warn you, though, he just got out of a relationship so he's a little— speak of the Devil."

Reese followed Kurt's gaze to the boy walking toward them, "Is that David?"

"No," Kurt mumbled; he frowned, "Trip, what are you doing here?"

Trip looked agitated; anxious, "…shopping for a dress and some scented soaps."

"Ha ha. You're hilarious," Kurt rolled his eyes and motioned a hand toward Reese, "This is Reese. We work together."

Trip glanced at Reese and gave a short nod, "Trip."

"I've heard about you," Reese smiled; looked Trip over with obvious intrigue. He nudged Kurt's foot a little.

Trip turned his gaze back to Kurt, "Come with me. We need to talk."

Kurt frowned, "Trip, I just got to work—and aren't you supposed to be in class or something?"

"Cutting," Trip's eyes darted around the store, "Can we go?"

Kurt's frown deepened, "What' wrong with you? Are you on something?"

Trip's gaze snapped back to Kurt and he glared, "No."

"You're being…shifty and weird. What's wrong?" Kurt searched Trip's face.

Trip let out a loud sigh, "Fuck, can we just get out of here? It smells like vanilla and it's making me nauseous; seriously lets fucking go."

"Trip, I can't leave work; I just got here and I have a million things to do and—"

"Please?" Trip's expression softened a little but still held an odd intensity.

Reese reached over and squeezed Kurt's knee, "You guys can talk in the backroom. I'll cover for you with Darcy."

Kurt smiled his gratitude before turning his attention back to Trip, "Give me five minutes? Let me make sure my boss is actually out so she doesn't skin me alive for having a non-employee in her idea space or something."

Kurt had barely finished his sentence before Trip was already gone out the door.

Kurt rolled his eyes, "Just this once I hope he's smoking—he's way too edgy."

"Those  _eyes,_ oh my God, Kurt, I can see why your roommate would have a hard time letting him go; he's  _gorgeous_ ," Reese twisted around to try and see out the front window, "But he is a little…manic or something."

"That is not even a tenth of the things wrong with him," Kurt rolled his eyes.

Reese laughed a little, "You can check if you want, but I'm ninety-nine percent sure Darcy is out on some sort of mission."

"I'll double check the back just in case; you never know where she might be lurking," Kurt smiled, "Thanks again for covering for me—I promise I'll make it quick; he probably just burned down a building or something and needs help covering his tracks."

Once he'd ensured the store was entirely Darcy-free, Kurt made his way back up to the front door.

Trip was pacing; a stream of smoke curling out behind him in the cold air and swirling in lazy clouds when he turned and walked back through it again.

"Seriously, are you sure you didn't take ecstasy or something? You're  _insane_  right now." Kurt leaned against the doorframe and folded his arms tightly across his chest in a feeble attempt to trap in his body heat.

"I'm always a little insane." Trip slowed his pacing; blew a cloud of smoke out his mouth.

"If you'd be so kind as to put out your cigarette, we can talk in the backroom, but I don't have long."

"Always busy," Trip muttered. He dropped his cigarette down and ground it out under a shoe before breezing past Kurt and into the store again, "God forbid you let your mind free up a little."

"Now you're being a pest, a psychopath, and an asshole." Kurt followed after Trip quickly.

When they were finally in the backroom, Trip's eyes drifted over the boxes and boxes of paper cranes Kurt had finally brought in, "They're done?"

Kurt looked at the boxes, too, "I still need to string them all up. I'm hoping I can do that today…I might have to stay late."

"Of course," Trip drummed his fingers on the side of his leg.

Kurt frowned when they both fell quiet and decided to try a topic change, "…What'd you think of Reese?"

"Who?" Trip frowned.

"Reese—cute guy you met less than ten minutes ago?"

Trip shrugged.

"I'm setting him up with David."

Trip finally met Kurt's eyes. He looked momentarily hurt but then he shrugged again.

"That was your suggestion, wasn't it? Set him up with someone new?" Kurt tilted his head to try and read Trip's face, "Trip."

"What?" Trip snapped.

"If you think maybe I shouldn't set him—"

"I don't fucking care what David does, Kurt."

"You seem like you do…you could come over tonight and talk—"

"Stop fucking meddling. Just  _stop_ ," Trip glared at him, "What the fuck do you care who we spend our time with?"

"Trip, I'm just trying to help."

Trip laughed hollowly.

It was Kurt's turn to get angry, "You're the one who stormed in here and demanded we talk. Is this what you wanted to do? Have me try to tell you something while you just shut me down?"

"No, but this is usually how our conversations go, isn't it?"

Kurt rolled his eyes, "Honestly, Trip, if you're going to act like this, Blaine might be the better person for you to talk to right now—he's slightly more tolerant of your bullshit than I am."

Trip flexed his jaw, "You planning on going to see him?"

Kurt watched Trip's face carefully, "I'm still a little worried about getting him sick… maybe in a couple days. We Skype every night between six and eight—it's worked out fairly nicely actually, he talks to Rachel from five to six and I talk to her from eight to nine."

"What a lovely plan, Kurt, that's really very nice." Trip sneered.

"What the hell is your problem?" Kurt finally lost his temper; glared hard at Trip.

"My problem is that you think no one knows what you're doing when the truth is everyone fucking knows and we all play dumb and just let you keep going on and on with your stupid fucking schedule." Trip's expression was stormy; mean.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Kurt spoke through gritted teeth, "Forgive me if I've offended you by having a lot of things going on during my day and—"

Trip was seething; shaking with barely contained rage, "Don't be so fucking stupid, Kurt. All of this is a big fucking façade."

"All of what?" Kurt shouted back; angry tears suddenly pricking the corners of his eyes. All he'd wanted from the day was the simple pleasure of his schedule; the sense of normalcy. Having a screaming match with Trip Morgan had not been a part of the plan.

"Everything! Blaine throws himself into fixing me like I'm some sort of project and you sit around folding a billion fucking pieces of paper!" Trip kicked a box of finished cranes, sending most of them flying through the air and crashing back to the floor in a crumpled mess, "You invest yourself in this stuff like it matters so you can pretend like you're moving forward; like shit is good and positive and fan-freaking-tastic, but guess what? It's not good; it sucks. Everything is shit and we're all stuck."

"Everything is not shit," Kurt clenched his fists hard; his nails bit into his palms, "Things are fine! We are  _not_  stuck."

"Fine, you're right; you're not stuck; you're just buried fucking neck-deep in bullshit."

"We are not! I don't know what your problem is, but—"

"You said it yourself last week. Blaine wouldn't tell you about the doctor's appointment."

"He was stressed out, he needed time to think about it." Kurt stared stubbornly down at the floor.

"Has he mentioned it since then?"

"No, we try to stay positive when we can only do the Skype thing, it's hard to—"

Trip let out a sharp, mean sounding laugh, "Of course, nothing's wrong at all. Gotta stay positive. Did he tell you his grandma is in town?"

"Of course he did," Kurt snapped, "What does that have to do with anything?"

Trip's expression moved from angry to something a little more solemn, "Here's how I see it."

"Do I even want to hear this?" Kurt spoke through gritted teeth; he didn't trust the lump still stuck in his throat to remain locked away without his conscious effort.

Trip ignored him, "You and Blaine are about to hit a crossroads of sorts. Because, lets face it, even if he gets better, the kid is going to be majorly fucked up for a long time."

"Shut—"

"No,  _you_  shut up and listen," Trip stepped in closer to Kurt, crushing paper cranes under his feet, "You know it as well as I do. It's not like one day he's gonna come home from the doctor and say 'Hey, baby, guess what? The cancer's gone! Go grab your little pre-packed box of New York shit and we'll drive off into the sunset together and pretend this never happened!'"

Kurt set his jaw; clamped his hands into even tighter fists, "He's doing better. He does better all the time—he almost never yells anymore."

"He's got a cold that's been around for months, he forgets words and never remembers them, and his feet fall asleep twice a day," Trip glowered at Kurt, "He doesn't yell because his head's too fucking busy trying to figure out how to make it down the stairs and yell hello to whoever's at the door at the same time."

"Shut up!" Kurt made to clamp his hands over his ears.

Trip grabbed his wrists; pinned his arms down to his sides, "No, you're going to fucking hear me. You're going to listen!"

"Trip, you're hurting me! Let go!" Kurt struggled hard; suddenly irrationally panicked.

"No," Trip's hands moved to his shoulders; he shook him once; hard, "Fucking look at me!"

He knew it was childish and stupid and pointless, but Kurt closed his eyes tight, "Trip, let go!"

"Blaine fainted this morning."

Kurt's eyes flew open. He stared dazedly at Trip's face, "…w-what?"

"He fainted." Trip's tone was still hard, but it was quieter. His grip on Kurt's shoulders loosened a little.

W-we talked last night, and he…he was f-fine," Kurt shook his head, but then the fear set in hard and fast and sent him into a near-frenzy of questions, "Is he hurt? Did he go to the hospital? When did he—"

Trip squeezed his arms, but this time it was a slightly reassuring gesture, "He's not hurt, he's still at home, but they might take him in to get him checked out. He thinks he got too dizzy or something. It happened when I was over."

"S-so…he's okay," Kurt took in a deep breath through his nose; let it out slowly, "It wasn't…it wasn't a big deal."

Trip's grip loosened, but he held on to Kurt's shoulders, "Make him tell you."

Kurt searched Trip's face, but all he could find was more exhaustion and more anger, "Tell me what?"

"The truth."

Kurt stepped away from Trip, "He doesn't lie to me. We don't do that to each other."

"That doesn't mean he isn't keeping things from you."

"He isn't keeping anything from me," Kurt glared, but his voice faltered, "I've seen him over Skype, and I've been with him all the time before that. He's sick; his immune system isn't good and the weather's hard on him. In the spring things will be easier."

Trip dragged a hand through his hair, "How do you keep doing this, huh? How do you keep telling yourself over and over again that things are going to be okay?"

"The same reason you still have David's jacket in the backseat of your car and the key to our apartment in your pocket," Kurt sat down slowly on the edge of a stool; suddenly not sure he could trust his knees not to give out on him, "Even when it's so hard that you want to scream, you still hold onto the hope that things will get better. Once you know how happy you're actually capable of being... you're willing to hurt if it means you can feel that again."

"When you do drugs, they call that 'chasing your first high'," Trip stared at Kurt for a moment longer before his gaze slid to the overturned box of paper cranes, "But you know what? Most people never reach it; they just end up a strung out, fucked up mess."

Kurt reached into his pocket traced and his fingers around the feather pin Blaine had given him for graduation. He'd taken to carrying it with him when he wasn't wearing it, and now he'd developed a bad habit of fidgeting with it constantly. He pulled it out and stared down at the pink gold of the metal; traced his thumb around the edge, "I think you're wrong."

Trip was quiet for a moment before taking a step in closer to Kurt. He placed a key down on Kurt's knee, "That's to your apartment."

"Trip, you don't have to give that back," Kurt spoke softly. He felt the almost hysterical urge to cry, though he was fairly sure it wasn't about the key.

"I stopped by and picked up Bocelli...I don't have anything left there that's mine," Trip's voice was quiet, "...and I left Dave's jacket in the hall closet."

Kurt looked up when he heard Trip's footsteps retreating, "Trip, wait."

Trip stopped at the door and turned to look at Kurt.

"Did…" Kurt closed his hand around the key and the pin and squeezed them both tightly in his palms, "D-did Blaine tell you what they said at the doctor's appointment?"

Trip held Kurt's gaze; his expression solemn, "Yes."

Kurt searched Trip's face desperately, "W-what did—what happened? Is he—"

"Go talk to him, Kurt," Trip turned away and pushed the door open, "Soon."

Kurt sat alone on the back room long after Trip was gone, unmoving.

Everything was muted save for a ringing in his ears, and Kurt could swear the earth was spinning just a little faster than it should be or it was tilted a little too much or maybe it was just him that wasn't quite in tune with the motions...And it wasn't going to straighten out; it wasn't going to slow.

As soon as the realization hit, Kurt was up and on his feet. He bumped into customers; he didn't stop to tell Reese where he was going; he breezed past Darcy as they crossed paths in the doorway—deaf to whatever she was shouting after him.

The schedule planned to the minute and packed down to the seconds was suddenly completely gone from his head. He had room for only two things in his mind.

Panic.

And Blaine.


	31. Chapter 27

The whole world is made of senses. Sights and feelings and tastes and smells and sounds—even at seven years old, Kurt could close his eyes and conjure up any place he had ever been and put it all back together again. The Cohen-Chang's family room—milky white carpet and a floral-print couch that sighed when you sank into silky slide of the cushions. His own backyard—it smelled like leaves or cut grass or clean snow depending on the season—but Kurt could feel the rough wood of the fence snagging on his fingertips if he imagined it hard enough.

It's not just places. People are made up of senses too—they have certain feels and looks and smells that are all their own.

His mother smelled like the bottle of perfume that sat on top of her dresser. Kurt liked that bottle; liked the smooth lines of the glass; the neat little square label on the front; liked the pale yellow, gold of the perfume inside. More than anything he liked the smell. It was the smell of his hiding place in the back of his parent's closet and butterfly kisses on the tip of his nose and hugs to make everything better after a bad day at school. It was the smell of his mother and love and everything soothing.

One Tuesday—Kurt didn't know why it should be different than any other Tuesday—the smell became especially important. He walked through the front door humming a song to himself—more and more he found himself liking music; liking the way it could tell stories and the way it could bubble up out of his mouth. He dropped his backpack down by the door and made his way to the family room, talking before he was even fully in the room, "Know what I thought today, Mom?"

She was on the couch where she always was. She looked tired; frail, but she smiled for Kurt, "What'd you think today, beautiful boy?"

"We learned about cursive handwriting; I can sign my name like how you and dad do almost." Kurt told her proudly; he contemplated going back to his backpack to fetch his practice sheet so he could show her, but he was afraid he'd lose his great thought if he didn't tell her right away.

"Can you? That's wonderful." She slid over to make room for him on the couch; patted the cushion lightly to indicate where he should sit.

He fit himself in at her side and smiled up at her, "After cursive we had music and I was thinking about how talking and music are kind of like the normal writing and the cursive kind."

"How so?" His mother smiled; stroked a hand through his hair.

"Singing is like pretty talking and cursive is like pretty regular writing." Kurt beamed because it was true—music connected everything together in pretty, curving loops of sound; took the boring, blocky talking and made it into something nice to look at.

"That's beautiful, sweetheart; you're so smart," She pressed a kiss to the top of his head.

He didn't mind when she lingered; didn't comment when she inhaled the smell of him as deep as she could, and when she wrapped her arms around him and pulled him onto her lap, he hugged her back.

"I love you very much, Kurt." Her voice sounded funny.

"I love you, too, Mom." Kurt returned the hug; even more pleased with his music-writing comparison now that it seemed to be getting him extra special attention.

At the sound of the stairs creaking, he looked up in surprise to see his father appearing around the corner—his face tired and drawn and a little old like it always was those days, "Did you have no cars to fix today, Dad?"

Burt managed a smile for Kurt, but it looked strained, "Always cars to fix, buddy, just had some more important things to deal with."

Kurt nodded like he understood, "Wanna know what I thought of today that I told Mom about?"

"What's that?" Burt rubbed a hand over his eyes.

Kurt repeated his cursive writing is to block writing as singing is to talking comparison, but his father barely smiled.

"That's true, kid; good thinking." Burt cleared his throat and rubbed his eyes yet again.

Kurt giggled in delight when his father sat down beside him and his mother and wrapped his arms around both of them tight because, in Kurt's opinion, family hugs were the best.

His parents hugged around him and it was warm and nice and his father's shirt was soft on his cheek and even though his mother felt a little sharp with her thin frame, it was all still rather comforting.

When Burt pulled away, Kurt's mother held onto his hand; squeezed it tight.

Kurt looked between them with a smile and thought they were almost as in love as the princes and princesses in Disney movies and that was kind of nice.

His mother smoothed a hand over the collar of Kurt's shirt, "Kurt, sweetheart, come upstairs with me for a minute, I want to show you something."

Kurt slid off of his mother's lap—she hadn't carried him for a long time. She was scared she'd faint like that one time earlier in the fall and hurt Kurt in the process, and secretly Kurt was afraid he was too big and might hurt her if she picked him up.

They walked hand in hand up the stairs first to her room where she picked up the bottle of perfume off of the dresser and then across the hall to Kurt's room.

"What're we doing?" Kurt sat down on his bed and watched her curiously.

She smiled and held out the bottle to Kurt, "I've seen you smelling this before."

Kurt blushed, suddenly feeling guilty, "I know it's glass so it could break and I shoud've asked first, but I promise I'm always really careful…sorry."

"You're not in trouble, honey," She laughed a little and kissed his cheek, "I had an idea that I wanted to share with you."

Kurt's whole body relaxed and he smiled, "What?"

"Hand me your pillow," She motioned a hand toward the head of his bed.

Kurt handed it over quickly and watched as she sprayed the very edge of his pillowcase with the perfume, "What's that for?"

"If you ever miss me or you're scared at night, you can find this corner of your pillow and close your eyes and pretend I'm right there with you," She smiled; held out the pillow.

Kurt took it and inhaled deeply; the smell was still so strong, it tickled his nose a little. He looked up at her and smiled, "That was a good idea."

"I'm glad you think so." She smiled; squeezed his knee.

Burt appeared in the doorway, "What're you two up to?"

"Mom sprayed my pillow with her perfume for in case I have bad dreams at night," Kurt pointed to the edge of his pillowcase for his father to see, "It's like when you and her come home from dates and you come in to kiss me goodnight—it smells like that. I can close my eyes really tight and pretend that; isn't that a good idea?"

Kurt watched in alarm when his father's eyes suddenly shone with tears, "Th-that's a great idea, bud."

"Dad, what's wrong?" Kurt looked between his parents feeling suddenly anxious.

Burt pulled himself back together before any of the tears could actually fall. He coughed into his hand, "Nothing, kiddo; you got homework that needs doing?"

Kurt nodded reluctantly, "I have a spelling worksheet."

Before he could get off of the bed to go back to fetch his backpack, his mother stopped him with a gentle hand on his arm, "Before you do your homework, there's something I want you to do."

Kurt frowned, "What?"

A smile blossomed across her face, "Go out and play. Little boys aren't allowed to do homework until they've had a little bit of fun."

He beamed at her and leaned in to give her a quick kiss, "Love you, Mom."

"And I love you," She smiled, but it looked sad.

Late that night, Kurt lay awake in his bed; his nose a few inches from the place that smelled like his mother, but he couldn't sleep. His nightlight was on and his covers were all straight and he had the right weekly rotation of stuffed animals lined up beside him and his dad had even left the door open just the perfect amount, but still, Kurt was restless. Something was…off; nagging at him.

After what felt like a million years of rolling from his back to his front to his side, Kurt slid his feet out of the bed and crept toward the hallway. He could still see the sliver of light creeping out from under his parent's bedroom door, so he tiptoed as quietly as possible over to it and pressed his ear close.

"—He's too young; let him be happy—"

"—Betrayed if he find out we didn't tell him."

"I'm trying to make this easy for him, Burt, he's only—"

"—know you're not sick anymore—"

Kurt couldn't stop himself; didn't care that he'd be caught eavesdropping. He threw open their bedroom door.

He was confused for a moment; they both looked like they had been crying, but his mother wiped her eyes quickly, "Kurt, honey, what are you doing out of bed?"

He couldn't bring himself to feel bad about sneaking around outside the door; he was still too breathless with what he'd overheard to think about anything else, "I couldn't sleep, but then I heard you guys talking and that you're not sick anymore!"

His parents looked at— _stared_  at him—in mute horror.

Kurt looked between them, "I heard you say it, Dad, I heard you say 'know you're not sick anymore' to Mom."

His parents finally tore their eyes away from him to look at one another.

They did that sometimes—stared at each other without saying anything but it was like they were talking. Kurt wondered if when you got married if you could read each other's minds…maybe that's how people decided to get babies…

Kurt's mother interrupted his musings; she pulled back the comforter on their bed a little, "Come sit with us, Kurt, we need to talk about something."

Kurt climbed eagerly into the space between his parents. Maybe they could go on a real spring break trip now that his mom was feeling better; maybe they could plan it right now, but then Kurt was worried he might really be tired for school in the morning because there's no way he's going to be able to fall asleep if he's excited about a vacation and—

"Kurt, I think you misunderstood what I was talking to your mom about." Burt spoke after a long silence.

Kurt frowned, "What do you mean?"

"Your mom…" Burt looked away for a moment and then back at Kurt, "She's still sick, bud."

Kurt felt something catch in his throat, "B-but you said—you s-said she wasn't."

His mother wrapped an arm around his shoulders, "He meant I won't be feeling sick from my medicines anymore, honey."

Kurt tried to swallow down his disappointment…this was still okay news, after all. If his mother didn't feel sick, then maybe she could play with him more, "…so does that mean you're starting to get better though? Dad says you get sick 'cause your medicine's so strong, so is it less strong cause you're not so sick anymore?"

His mother swallowed thickly, "No, honey, it's…"

His parents exchanged another look and then it was Burt who was talking, "Your mom's not going to be taking that medicine anymore 'cause it's not working so good."

Kurt frowned, "Are you gonna take a new medicine that works better? Maybe the stuff I take for my throat could be good—it tastes like bubblegum, too, so it's not so bad to take and I always feel better when we get that from the doctor."

His mother smiled a little, "No, honey, I don't think that will help with cancer."

"Oh," Kurt looked down at the blanket pulled over his lap in confusion as he tried to puzzle over the whole thing before looking back up to his mother, "…so how are you supposed to get better if you don't take your medicine? You always say that even when medicine tastes gross I have to take it or I'll never get better."

In response, she wrapped both arms around him; rubbed a hand over his back, "We're going to just focus on loving each other as much as we can for awhile; can you help us do that?"

Kurt wasn't entirely sure how loving someone could make them not have cancer anymore—and then he fretted that maybe he should have been loving his mother more so she got better faster—but he just hugged her back and nodded, "Yeah."

They had another family hug—even better and tighter than the one from when Kurt had gotten home from school.

When Burt pulled away, he smiled at Kurt, "Do you want to sleep in our bed tonight, kiddo?"

Kurt's eyes went wide; his parents almost never let him sleep in their bed anymore and besides that he felt like maybe sleeping with your parents was something for only little kids and babies, but the offer was too tempting, "Could I?"

"Sure, Kid, at least just for tonight." Burt leaned over and turned off the bedside lamp.

Kurt settled down between his parents—pressed a little closer to his mother than his father—and felt a near-immediate exhaustion spread over his limbs.

The sheets were cool and soft around him and the quiet sounds of floors creaking and the wind outside lulled Kurt closer and closer to sleep.

His thoughts turned hazy and laced with the edge of dreams. Kurt imagined Disney World and the ocean and hotels with swimming pools and his whole family taking pictures with Mickey Mouse and building sandcastles and all of the other cool things people got to do when they went on trips. Before sleep could overtake him entirely; Kurt made himself a promise that he was going to love his mother so much that she'd be better again by the time summer vacation started.

He snuggled in a few inches closer to his mother, inhaled deeply, and drifted off to sleep with a smile on his face.

* * *

The drive to the Anderson's was a blur—a blur of terror and memories he didn't want. A blur of hurt and a twisting stomach and ears ringing so loud, Kurt thought he might go deaf.

When he pulled into the driveway, he didn't bother locking his car—he threw himself out of his seat and made for the door. He tripped over the top porch step—caught his ankle funny on the wood—but if it hurt, the pain went unnoticed. He stormed through the front door without knocking.

Elizabeth saw him first as she came out of the kitchen with a glass of water in one hand and an orange prescription bottle in the other, "Kurt? Honey, are you al—"

"Where is he?" Kurt choked on the words; his whole chest and throat were so constricted, he was a little shocked they had even made it out of his mouth.

"He's upstairs, but—"

Kurt turned on his heel and half-ran up the steps.

Blaine was sitting on the edge of his bed with a mug of something steaming balanced on his knees. His eyes were already on the doorway as Kurt turned into his room. He put his mug down on the nightstand and pushed himself to his feet a little unsteadily.

Kurt stood barely a foot inside the door, breathing too hard and his heart pounding against his ribs. Every inch of him felt tight and tense and like it might shatter, "What aren't you telling me?"

Blaine flinched at the volume behind Kurt's voice.

Kurt didn't care. He didn't care if Blaine had a headache or if his voice was too high and too tight and near hysterical; He shouted even louder, "Tell me!"

Blaine approached him slowly; searched his face for how much he already knew, "Tell you what?"

The sound registered before anything else. A loud smack. Undeniable. Irrevocable.

It took a moment for Kurt to make sense of what had happened. The pink handprint on Blaine's cheek; his eyes wide and confused as though he, too, wasn't entirely sure what had just happened. And finally—just barely—Kurt felt the soft prickling sting of his own palm still poised in the air.

Neither one of them moved for a moment; neither one spoke.

Kurt's hand dropped to his side, but he didn't know what else to do; couldn't get his brain to process anything except  _you just hit Blaine, you just hit Blaine, you just hit Blaine—_

Blaine recovered first. He took a tentative step toward Kurt and reached up both hands to his face. His voice was quiet as he thumbed away the tears on Kurt's cheeks, "Don't cry. Please don't cry."

The second he felt it—warm, familiar fingers against his skin—Kurt broke. He threw his arms around Blaine's neck; sobbed and tried to gulp in air all at once, "Oh G-god, I'm s-s-so s-sorry, I d-didn't mean t-to do—I'd n-never—Oh G-g-god, B-Blaine, I—"

"Shh," Blaine hugged him back as tight as he could, "Shh, it's okay."

"No i-it's n-n-not, I j-just hit you! I hi-i-it you a-and I—"

"Hey, stop and breathe," Blaine murmured; his voice calm and warm as though everything was okay. Like Kurt hadn't just slapped him across the face. Like nothing was wrong at all, "Shh, deep breaths. We're okay."

Instead of calming down, Kurt cried even harder, "N-n-no we're n-not, Trip s-s-said you're n-not t-t-telling—"

"Okay, shh, alright," Blaine smoothed a hand over his back, "You're right, we need to talk."

Kurt let out a strangled whimper.

"What's going on in here?" Helen appeared in the door; glared at Kurt, "If you're upsetting Blaine—"

"He's not," Blaine cut her off coolly, "He's fine."

"You shouldn't be out of bed, Blaine." Helen reprimanded him, but there was no venom in her tone.

Kurt tore himself free from Blaine's hold, finally getting a grip at Helen's words. He sniffled and tried to calm his breathing, "Sh-she's right, you should be l-lying down."

For once, Blaine didn't argue. He held tight to Kurt's hand and moved back toward his bed. He glanced up at Helen, "Grandma, could you close the door, please?"

Kurt was sure she'd refuse. He waited for her to launch into a talk on their relationship or closed doors and temptation or—

"Call if you need anything," She cast a cold glance toward Kurt, but then she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her.

The sudden passiveness was the opposite of comforting. Kurt closed his eyes tight; tried to find his center. If he was scared, then Blaine had to be terrified; he needed to calm down; he needed to be able to hear what Blaine was going to say.

When he opened his eyes, Blaine was watching him from his place on the bed, "Come sit down."

Kurt pulled up the desk chair and sat down stiffly. He couldn't bring himself to sit on the bed.

Blaine looked at the space between them, but didn't comment on it. Instead, he sank a little lower against his headboard; rubbed his eyes, "…what did Trip say?"

"Does it matter?" Kurt whispered; his eyes moved to Blaine's nightstand where the abandoned mug now sat. The faint smell of peppermint hit Kurt's nose.

"He told you I'm not telling you things."

Kurt nodded stiffly.

"Anything else? Did he tell you what I'm not…what I'm not…"

"Saying," Kurt filled quietly, "…he said you fainted."

Blaine nodded, "It was only a couple minutes. I got too dizzy and all of the sudden I just…passed out, I guess. My mom called the doctor; he didn't make me come in. just said I should lie down."

"Would you have told me it happened if Trip hadn't?" Kurt finally looked over to meet Blaine's gaze.

Blaine looked down at his lap, "…probably not."

"Why, Blaine?" Kurt fought the urge to start crying again, "Why are you keeping secrets?"

"The fainting thing…it wasn't a big deal…I wanted—there are bigger things I need to tell you, so adding that just didn't seem necessary or…" Blaine swallowed, "…important."

"What does seem important?" Kurt's voice wavered.

Neither one of them said anything for a minute.

Kurt stared at his handprint still blotchy against Blaine's cheek.

Blaine caught him looking and reached over toward the edge of the bed, "It's okay."

"No, it's not," Kurt whispered. He withdrew his hands from the edge of the bed and out of Blaine's reach. He felt his voice get caught in his throat again, "None of this is okay, Blaine, we both know that."

Blaine nodded and looked down at his lap, "…open the drawer on my nightstand."

Kurt did as instructed. He was familiar with that drawer. It was where Blaine kept everything that didn't have a home somewhere else. It was where condoms and lube got hidden in old Hot Wheels carrier cases and got lost underneath stacks of pictures and ten year-old McDonald's toys that Blaine refused to get rid of.

Over the past few months, the occasional emptied pill bottle and the yellow stress ball had found a home in the drawer, too, but today there was something even newer.

Kurt lifted the journal out carefully, but the soft leather of the covers still flopped in his hand, "Is this what you want?"

Blaine glanced over and nodded, "…and there's a folder on my desk…could you grab that too, please?"

Kurt stood on feet that suddenly felt like they weren't attached properly; like they weren't his. He moved mechanically to the desk and stared down at the things littered across the top. He lifted the red folder and turned to face Blaine, "This one?"

Blaine nodded.

Kurt returned to his seat; rested the folder on the bed beside the journal and waited.

Blaine looked down at the items; studied them quietly, "…I had a doctors appointment last Wednesday."

Kurt nodded; held his breath.

Blaine was still staring at the folder, "…It wasn't good."

Kurt closed his eyes.

"They, um…" Blaine paused for what felt like an hour, a day, a year, "…they're going to do a second surgery."

Kurt's eyes flew open, "That's it?"

Blaine looked up at him with mild alarm.

"Th-they're—" Kurt felt near-euphoric, 'They're not discontinuing treatment?"

Blaine's face fell, "No, they're not, but Kurt—"

Kurt let out a fluttery laugh, "I thought—I thought that's what you were going to tell me. I thought you were going to say it wasn't working, so you were going to discontinue and—"

"Kurt, stop," Blaine looked like he was in physical pain, "Please…please stop and let me finish. You wanted me to be honest."

Kurt froze—his jubilation halted to an angry stop.

Blaine held his gaze carefully, "It's not…it's not like the first surgery."

Kurt stared at him mutely.

"They didn't…" Blaine rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, "…they really argued about whether or not to do it."

"…What?"

"I'm not as strong as I was when we did the first one—that's pretty obvious," Blaine tried to smile a little, but when Kurt just stared back at him, his face went solemn again, "It ended up being a pros and cons battle and the pros in favor of the surgery won…barely."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying…" Blaine was quiet for a long moment. He took in a shaky breath and let it out, "I'm saying you really need to say 'I love you, too' before the surgery this time."

Kurt was vaguely aware of a rushing, ringing sound starting in his ears; he fought it hard and tried to focus as Blaine pushed the journal closer to him.

"They had me refill out my advanced directive forms for if…for if something happens," Blaine was speaking slowly as though to a small child (not that Kurt felt much bigger than when he was seven), "I put a lot of thought into it—I've  _been_  putting a lot of thought into it in case it ever got to this point—and I made some decisions."

"What kind of decisions?" Kurt heard himself say.

Blaine reached over and flipped open the journal with shaky fingers to one of the last pages, "I… this isn't exactly what it says—the forms are different—but it explains…it explains why in here."

"Why what, Blaine?" Kurt felt a new sob building in his chest; growing along with the rushing sound in his ears.

"If…if something happens and they have to put me on life support or something," Blaine traced his fingers over the penned words on the page as though reading the message there beneath the pads of his fingers, "…one week, and they'll take me off of a vent. They'd keep me on comfort care but—"

"No."

"Kurt, this is for the best, I told you, I explained why right here if—"

"I don't want you to die," Kurt's voice came out in a strangled sob; he clenched his hands pathetically into the edge of the comforter beside his knees, "Please, Blaine—you can't. You just can't."

Blaine smiled sadly, "Everybody dies Kurt… our parents will die, our friends, our enemies, even you… nobody escapes it; it's not a matter of if, it's just a matter of when."

"Why now then, why not later? You're eighteen.  _We're_  eighteen." Kurt only cried harder. His chest, his head; his whole body hurt with the sobs that wracked it.

"There' no guarantee I'm going to die, Kurt, but it's…a bigger possibility than it was. I made the decision because I don't want to be some shell of myself that you're hung up on visiting for years on end hoping I might come back. You need to live, you need to be able to—"

"No!"

Blaine quieted for a moment; studied Kurt's face as though memorizing it.. He stretched a hand out on the bed toward Kurt again even though he was out of reach, "No matter what, it's going to be okay."

"How can you say that?" Kurt sobbed, "How can you even  _begin_  to say that?"

"Because I believe it." Blaine drew his hand back in toward his lap.

"How can  _anything_  be okay?" Kurt tried to take in deep breaths to calm himself, but all they did was fuel his tears, "How can I ever be okay without you?"

"You have so much to live for Kurt; you're going to do so many amazing things," Blaine smiled, "You'll be more than okay whether I'm around or not."

Kurt met Blaine's gaze abruptly, he reached out and finally squeezed Blaine's hand tightly between his own hoping for one last chance to change it all, "I don't need it—any of it; I don't need New York or fame or music—I'll trade all of it for you, I will; I swear. Just don't sign the papers. Don't, please, just don't."

Blaine sighed, "Kurt, it doesn't work that way; it's not a game where we get to just trade pieces to get things to happen the way we want… and they're your dreams; don't just pawn them off like they aren't important."

" _You_  are my dream," Kurt held Blaine's palm against his face, tears caught on their hands and forged new paths around them down his face; he could taste them on his mouth, "None of it matters if I can't share it with you. Please, Blaine, please don't make me do this alone again. I can't."

"You can do it," Blaine managed a small smile.

"I don't want to." Kurt shook his head hard, "I don't want a life that doesn't include you."

Blaine suddenly frowned, "Don't be one of those people, Kurt."

Kurt met his eyes with confusion.

"Everybody dies but not everybody lives; don't let that be you," Blaine held his gaze, "That can't be you. You don't get to die just because I do."

"Is there a good chance that will happen?" Kurt cut him off; anger and hurt and  _agony_ swirling inside him, "Is there a good chance something bad is going to happen?"

Blaine held his gaze but didn't say anything.

Kurt didn't need him to say it. He could see it—he'd seen it in Trip's near hysteria at the store and the fear in Helen's face and now the solemn, quietness of Blaine's eyes. He squeezed his hands tight in his lap, "You promised me you wouldn't give up."

"I'm not, Kurt, I just—"

"You  _promised_ you wouldn't stop fighting this!" Kurt was on his feet.

"Would you listen to me?" Blaine's voice rose, too, his expression suddenly distraught, "You told me to talk to you and now you won't even hear me."

Kurt remained standing, glaring, "Why didn't you tell me? Why would you keep something like that a secret?"

Blaine closed his eyes for a moment and when he opened them again his expression was guilty, sad, "I was going to tell you. I was. I just… I wanted to wait until I could see you in person and…"

"And what?" Kurt snapped, suddenly irrationally angry again, "And you thought I was so stupid that I wouldn't know something was wrong? And you didn't think I could handle it? And—"

"No!"

"Then what, Blaine?" Kurt sniffled; scrubbed the tears off his cheeks with the back of a hand, "I stayed here with you, remember? I stayed here because I love you and I wanted us to do this together, but we keep having the same problems and the same fights over and over again. Why is it so hard for you to believe I can handle this?"

"Of course I know you can handle it. You're…you're the strongest person I know," Blaine looked like Kurt had slapped him all over again.

Kurt was crying yet again, but this time he made no effort to wipe away the tears; he sniffled hard, "Do you have any idea how infuriating you are? Do you have any idea how much I want to run out of here and run over to you at the exact same time?"

Blaine was suddenly crying too, his expression stricken and sad, "I didn't tell you because…it was selfish. I did it for me."

Kurt stared at him hard but said nothing.

"I did it…" Blaine tipped his head back as though gravity alone could keep the tears at bay, "I did it because I w-wanted to be able to pretend for a few days that we were okay. That's what we've been d-doing, isn't it? Trying to make things as okay as they can be? I just… I wanted the happiest thing in my life to stay good for a little while longer because I knew once we both knew, it would be…it would be just  _there_  all of the time and I didn't…I didn't want that."

"It  _was_  still there. You still knew." Kurt's voice wavered.

Blaine nodded, "But you didn't, so I could pretend I didn't, too…you know how when you have a really bad cold or the flu or something and the first day you're a little healthier—like you still have a stuffed up nose and your tired or whatever—you feel like you're the healthiest you've ever been? It's all…it's all relative, ya know? I'm sick…and I'm so fucking tired of being sick, but it's…things have been great for us and as long as you didn't know it was like…it was like things were good."

Kurt finally reached up to brush the tears off his face, "That's stupid."

"It's stupid," Blaine agreed quietly, "but you wanted the truth, and that's the truth."

Kurt swallowed hard; blinked down at his shoes.

Blaine watched him, "…will you come over here?"

Kurt shook his head.

"You won't come sit by me?" Blaine's voice was edged with a quiet hurt.

"I have a cold." Kurt's voice caught funny in his throat.

"You let me hold you before."

"That was stupid of me."

"So we can agree that we're both a little stupid?"

Kurt looked up to see Blaine smiling a little, but his eyes still shone with tears.

Blaine's smile faltered, "You won't kill me, Kurt."

A quiet whimper escaped Kurt's control.

"Please," Blaine reached a hand out lamely toward him, "Please, Kurt. Please come over here."

Kurt crossed the room and huddled into Blaine's side on the bed and started crying all over again.

Blaine cried, too, but he was preoccupied pressing kisses wherever he could land them on Kurt's face, "God, I've missed you. I've missed you so much."

Kurt took a calming breath; took solace in the familiar feeling of the harsh edges of Blaine's elbows and shoulders and hips, "I've missed you, too."

Kurt pulled away just far enough to study Blaine's face. He took in the pale skin around his mouth; the fever-heated flush in his cheeks, "You don't feel good."

Blaine shook his head, "No, but I'm feeling a lot better now."

Kurt's eyes lingered on Blaine's cheek. He pressed a kiss to the now invisible place where his palm had met Blaine's cheek, "I'm so sorry."

Blaine shrugged, "Don't be. I think I needed it."

Kurt shook his head, but sighed, "I could have probably used it more than you. I'm a little surprised Trip didn't slap me earlier today."

Blaine smiled a little, "Trip wouldn't ever hit you."

"He was pretty upset today. I wouldn't have put it past him." When Kurt felt a small movement against his wrist, he turned his gaze down to Blaine's hand. His thumb and pointer finger were still twitching rhythmically in their little dance, and, since Kurt had last seen him, his other fingers seemed to have joined in, a small quick movement in toward his palm and out again. Blaine followed his gaze.

"It got worse yesterday—" Blaine mumbled, "…don't know why; it'll probably settle down eventually, or I hope it will or—"

Kurt slipped his hand into Blaine's, closing his other one over the top of Blaine's fingers to hold them still around his own hand, "I don't see a thing."

Blaine smiled gratefully; he closed his eyes.

"Are you tired?" Kurt rubbed his thumb across Blaine's lightly. He was torn between bursting into another round of tearful bargaining and letting the guilt in his stomach bully him back into letting Blaine be..

Blaine's eyes remained closed but a ghost of a smile traced his mouth, "I'm always tired."

"I guess you're right…" Kurt slid in a little closer to Blaine's side.

Blaine rubbed his eyes with his free hand, "We were talking about Trip."

Kurt smiled; squeezed Blaine's hand between both of his a little tighter, "That's right. About him being upset."

Blaine nodded, "He's emotional—he doesn't like feeling upset like that. I'll talk to him and—"

"Trip has plenty of people to keep him company for a few hours," Kurt touched a kiss on Blaine's cheek again, "For now, you just need to rest. Save up your strength."

Blaine didn't put up a fight. He slid a little lower on the bed; smiled up at Kurt, "You'll stay?"

Kurt slid down beside him and nuzzled in closer, "Nowhere else I'd rather be."

Blaine smiled a little; closed his eyes, "…that journal's for you. Every single embarrassing entry is open for your reading pleasure."

Kurt swallowed hard when he felt a sudden sob building in his throat. He pulled at Blaine's arm, "Roll onto your stomach."

"Why?" Blaine murmured, already nearly asleep.

"I'll rub your back," Kurt pulled gently at him again,  _and I want to hold you._

Blaine didn't have the energy to argue. He shifted himself as best he could into Kurt's side, but then took the offered help until his head rested between Kurt's shoulder and chest; Kurt looped his arm under Blaine's neck and around his shoulder—he rubbed circles gently into his back—he could feel the soft arc of each rib beneath his fingers.

Kurt's tears were finally under control; he focused on Blaine cuddled into his side. Despite his tears finally abating, the hurt just got worse—a buzzing in his ears; a bad taste in his mouth; his stomach twisting itself in knots. Blaine had fallen asleep almost the moment he was nestled against Kurt—his forehead damp with sweat, but his thin body shivering against Kurt's. Kurt reached down and pulled a blanket up higher around his shoulders; tucked him in just a little closer to his own body. He turned his face down into Blaine's head and inhaled deeply—he knew that smell better than any other in the world—he knew it even better than he knew the taste of Blaine's mouth. Still, he kept his nose buried in the soft, short hair because one day he might not be able to. One day he might miss that smell and realize it was gone from memory—just as untouchable as the rest of Blaine.

He stifled the tears that threatened to start again by pressing his lips against Blaine's head.

For the first time in a long time, Kurt wished he were someone who prayed.


	32. Chapter 28

_Inhale._

_Exhale._

_Inhale._

_Exhale._

_Inhale._

Ex—

"Kurt?"

Kurt let out the last breath in a loud burst of air, his rhythm decidedly thrown off. He met Rachel's eyes and raised his eyebrows in a silent question.

"Are you awake?" He could feel the warmth of Rachel's breath on his cheek; it still smelled faintly of toothpaste.

"Yes."

"What time did you get in last night?"

"Late."

He felt her fingers graze the edge of his shirt, "Did you eat dinner before you came home?"

She'd been back in Ohio for less than twenty-four hours and Kurt was fairly sure she'd been hovering over for most of that time. Only Finn had proven to be enough of a distraction to tear her away from time to time. He contemplated the question. Had he had dinner? "I…yes. With Reese after work."

Nine hours, one broken ladder, and too many yards of string to count later, all of the cranes had been hung at Anthropologie and Kurt had hugged Reese goodbye one last time and smiled and nodded over the offered open couch for he and Blaine if they ever came to visit before Reese left to catch a flight back to New York. The display was beautiful, dinner had been nice, but it had seemed...small and oddly anticlimactic. All of that work and all of that time for a smile from Darcy, a quick meal with Reese, and the semester was over. Kurt hadn't decided yet if he was going to go back after winter break.

Rachel rolled over from her back to her stomach and frowned, clearly unconvinced, "What did you eat?"

"French fries," Kurt scowled at her, "Believe it or not, I've been in charge of feeding myself for about five months without someone reminding me."

Rachel's expression softened, "You still look like you forget from time to time."

Kurt fixed her with another withering look though he wasn't entirely sure she could see it in the barely there glow of the nightlight glowing dimly in the corner of the room, "I don't need a lecture on weight, Rachel. Not today."

"I know you don't," She rubbed a hand up and down his arm, "How long have you been awake?"

Kurt blinked up at the ceiling. It was still dark, but that didn't tell him much about the time. It could be two in the morning or seven and it would probably look the same, "I don't know."

Rachel slid in a little closer. Her feet were warm against his shins, "I've missed having sleepovers with you."

"Quinn's not a bedtime cuddler?" Kurt murmured.

"Sometimes, but she's not really a fan of sharing a bed and she's not as good at it as you," Rachel nudged Kurt's leg a little harder, "Are you liking being home in your own bed again?"

Kurt managed a smile, "This is the mattress from the guest room and this is the first night I've been in my room since I moved. Are  _you_  liking being back in Ohio or is life here too dull for you already?"

"Well, it certainly isn't New York. I don't know how to sleep without the sound of traffic anymore," Rachel smiled, "But being here has its perks. My dads weren't very happy I wanted to spend my first full night back over here."

"I didn't ask you to stay," Kurt rolled his eyes. He'd made it home from Columbus no earlier than midnight to find his father waiting up for him at the kitchen table. After a hug and a murmured conversation about Blaine and plans to drive back to Columbus the following morning, Kurt had lugged his bag up to his room to find Rachel already asleep in his bed.

"No, but that's what makes me such a good friend," Rachel's teeth flashed white in an even bigger smile in the semi-dark, "Besides, I barely got to talk to you yesterday. I saw your apartment for two minutes and then when I came to see you at work, you were too busy to even talk to me."

"You came to see me at work. I was  _working_." Kurt rolled his eyes.

"Still," Rachel sniffed, "Finn was packing up his dorm, and he still managed to talk to me."

"That's because you were packing for him while he sat and stared at you," Kurt yawned, "Are you two back together yet?"

"Kurt!" Rachel snapped.

"Rachel."

She sighed, "It's…complicated. We'll see."

"Hm." Kurt's eyes drifted back up to the ceiling.

Rachel filled the silence quickly, "I have new shoes that I think you might actually approve of."

"Hm."

"Do you want to see them?"

"Right now?" Kurt frowned.

He heard the swish of her hair against the pillowcase and assumed she was nodding.

"Is it an acceptable hour for us to be awake looking at shoes?"

"Does it matter?"

"I see your point," Kurt pushed himself up on his elbows and squinted against the light when Rachel turned on the bedside lamp.

His room was depressingly bare with most of his things still residing at the Columbus apartment, but his father and Carol had obviously made an attempt to make it seem a little homier for Kurt's return. There were pictures on the shelves Kurt recognized from their family room, a throw blanket across the end of his bed from the basement; a chair from the living room that had been moved into the far corner. He sat down in it and tucked his feet up beside him while Rachel rummaged through her overnight bag.

"Here they are!" She handed over a pair of nude colored heels with a smile.

Kurt studied the shoes, "Did Quinn pick them out for you?"

Rachel looked mildly offended, "No, I chose them all by myself, thank you very much."

"They're great. New York is like your very own fairy godmother," Kurt turned the heels over and studied them for a few more seconds before handing them back. His gaze drifted toward the window. The glass was steamed over at the edges, "What time is it?"

Rachel glanced at her phone "Five."

"Exactly five?" Kurt tilted his cheek into the back of the chair; closed his eyes.

"Does it matter?"

"Yes."

"Five o' seven, then." He could feel Rachel's eyes on him.

Three hours and fifty-three minutes. When he felt his heart quicken, Kurt tried to remember his breathing. He took in a breath, held if for eight seconds. When he exhaled, he counted out another eight seconds before sucking in another slow breath through his nose.

_Inhale_

_Exhale_

_Inhale_

_Exhale_

_In—_

"I'm sure I have some headshots in here somewhere you should see or maybe you could do my hair or—"

Kurt opened his eyes and turned his gaze toward Rachel.

She was digging through her bag almost frantically; her gaze flitting up to Kurt occasionally.

He sighed, "I know what you're doing."

"Doing? I'm not doing anything except trying to find my things in my bag—we could give each other manicures, too, I'm sure I have a clear coat in here somewhere and if you still have—"

"Rachel," Kurt smiled a little, "I know you're trying to distract me, but, please, just stop. You're putting me on edge."

Rachel's face fell, "I am?"

He nodded, "I appreciate you being here, and I'm sure you and whoever else helped you come up with this plan—"

"Finn."

Kurt resisted the urge to laugh, he should have known, "I'm sure you and Finn have nothing but the best intentions, but if you'd just sit here with me, I'd be a lot happier."

Rachel smiled, her slightly crazed expression melting, "I can do that. Do you want to go back to bed?"

The idea of lying in his bed with nothing but Rachel curled into his side and his thoughts for company seemed almost claustrophobic. He shook his head, "Lets make coffee."

They sat together at the kitchen table and stared down into their mugs.

Rachel stifled a yawn in the crook of her arm.

Kurt felt a twinge of guilt. He occasionally forgot that not everybody was on his and David's insomniac's wake-sleep cycle, "You can go back to bed if you want."

Rachel sat up straighter and shook her head, "No."

"Really, Rachel, I'll be fine for a couple hours."

"I couldn't sleep even if I wanted to," Rachel lifted her feet onto her chair and rested her chin on her knees, "…I went to see Blaine after I left your work."

Kurt looked up from his untouched coffee to her face.

She picked idly at an invisible piece of lint on the bottom of her pajama pants, "His parents were worried about germs and so was I, but he made me hold his hand for awhile."

Kurt nodded. He beat out a steady rhythm against the side of his cup with his index finger, "That's what we've been doing, too. Every time I go over there, I'm terrified I'm dragging the plague or something into the house. I've tried just sitting by him, but he says—"

"He wants to be able to touch you or else you might as well just be on the phone," Rachel glanced up; smiled a little, "He told me that, too."

Kurt sighed; shook his head, "He's so stubborn."

The silence hung heavy between them. The quiet drum of Kurt's finger against the cup suddenly audible in the quiet until Rachel spoke again, "He told me about the advance directives."

Kurt's hand stilled.

"He says you're upset."

Kurt's gaze jerked back to Rachel, "And you're not?"

"It's scary…" Rachel met Kurt's eyes fleetingly before looking back to her pajama bottoms, "but I understand the decision."

Kurt's throat felt tight as he spoke again, carefully, "You understand his decision to essentially kill himself if things don't go well?"

Rachel looked up at him again, frowned, "Kurt, you know it's not like that."

Kurt glared down at the table; tightened his grip around his mug, "No? Then what's it like?"

"If it was the other way around, what would you do?"

"I'd fight." Kurt snapped.

"What if it wasn't fighting anymore? What if Blaine just kept coming back to you week after week and month after month and year after year hoping you'd wake up? Would you want him to do that?"

Kurt gave her an icy glare, "I'd think you of all people would find that tragically romantic or something."

"At one time, I might have, but it's different when it's actually happening…" Rachel took a small sip of her coffee—or maybe she just lifted her cup to her mouth as an excuse for something to do, "…you didn't answer the question."

Kurt remained silent for a while, but they both knew his answer. Of course he wouldn't want that. He knew Blaine's decision made sense. He knew it wasn't cowardice or a lack of tenacity that led to it at all. Still, he didn't respond. Couldn't condone it. The idea of Blaine potentially signing away his life—

A hand closed over his.

Kurt looked up to see Rachel watching him with tears on her cheeks, "I'm scared, too. W-we have to be b-brave though, Kurt."

Kurt twisted his hand around until their fingers were laced. He squeezed tight and swallowed down the tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, "For Blaine."

She smiled a little; squeezed harder, "For Blaine."

They stayed together at the table, the coffee growing cold and their hands still linked together until they couldn't wait any longer to get dressed.

When they were finally ready and returned to the kitchen, Burt was already there with Carol, the car keys on the table. He met Kurt's eyes; smiled grimly.

Kurt found Rachel's hand and linked it with his own, "Lets go."

* * *

Kurt stared around at the pack of people already in the waiting room and they stared back at him.

He recognized Blaine's grandmother, a pack of Dalton alumni along with the current Warblers in a corner (Trip was absent), almost all of the New Directions sat together nearby; Blaine's grandmother sat alone, a strip of empty chairs acting as a buffer between her and Mike Chang. The only other person sitting by himself was David. He met Kurt's eyes with a mix of pity and mild relief.

Wes stood and crossed the room; shook his hand, "Always good to see you again, Kurt. I wish it could be under better circumstances."

Kurt nodded, "That makes two of us."

Kurt nodded a mute hello to some of the newer Warblers. He couldn't remember most of their names. He shook hands with a few more old classmates from Dalton; exchanged quiet words with his friends from McKinley. No one went so far as to hug him. It was like they were afraid to touch him too much.

Kurt tried to meet Helen's gaze, but she stared resolutely down at her lap. He looked around the room one last time before sitting down in the first empty seat he spied. Carol and Burt flanked him on either side while Rachel and Finn took the couple open spaces left near the New Directions.

Only the quiet hum of a heating vent and the slow tick of a clock above the door interrupted the silence. The Warblers and New Directions whispered to one another quietly or typed out quick messages and passed phones between each other.

Kurt drummed his fingers on his knees, tried to quiet his heart that felt like it was leaping into his throat.

When the door opened again, everyone's heads snapped up.

John and Elizabeth stood side by side; their shoulders bumping occasionally and both of their gazes directed at Kurt.

"We had a talk with the doctors," Elizabeth's eyes were red, Kurt noted, but he wasn't sure if it was from lack of sleep or tears, "Blaine wants to see you for a couple minutes if you'd like—"

Kurt jerked up out of his seat. He ignored the eyes in the room burning into the back of his neck as he followed Elizabeth and John out of the waiting room.

He was oddly aware of the sound of his shoes on the floor as he moved down one hallway and then another—they made a strange rhythm; a tap as his toe struck the linoleum; a squeak at the ball of his foot; a groan of leather, and then the pattern repeated as he dropped down the other foot.

_Tap, squeak, groan_

_Tap, squeak, groan_

_Tap, squeak, groan_

_Tap, squeak, groan_

…. on and on it went as they navigated the maze of hallways.

John handed him a mask. His fingers brushed Kurt's as he murmured something about contagions.

Elizabeth's hand bumped his arm as she added something about Blaine cutting his hair again.

Kurt remained mute. He watched doctors and nurses move past them in a steady hum of activity; noted empty hospital beds by the walls and patients pushing IV stands—their skin seeming to soak in the ugly yellow, gray glow of the fluorescents overhead and reflect it back out in an equally dull glow. He tried to remember the last time he'd walked hospital halls like this—how he'd felt; what he'd seen and heard and smelled and said. All that came to mind was the hum of an electric razor and the feeling of paint chipping beneath his fingers as he sat at Blaine's bedside in a folding chair.

Elizabeth squeezed his arm gently, "We'll give you two a minute."

They were stopped outside of a door. Kurt looked between the Andersons for a moment before slipping the mask on over his ears. He wrapped his hand around the handle and pushed the door open just far enough to let himself slip in before closing it firmly behind him. He wondered vaguely how many germs he might have let in with the opening and closing of the door or if the door was even capable of keeping them out in the first place.

Blaine's bed was reclined at an angle so that he was sitting up high enough to watch Kurt. His head was freshly shaved, and in the powder blue hospital gown, he looked oddly pale. His whole face transformed though as soon as he smiled, "I did a bad thing."

Though he knew Blaine couldn't see it under the mask, Kurt returned his smile, "What's that?"

Blaine glanced around the room as though checking for anyone else who might be listening in, "I may or may not have faked a bit of an angry, emotional meltdown to make them let you back here."

Kurt raised his eyebrows in mock shock, "You did not."

Blaine's smile turned devious, "I did. Don't tell on me, okay?"

"Your secret's safe with me." Kurt tried to take a mental picture of the particular tilt of Blaine's head; the angle of his chin.

Blaine watched him quietly for another few seconds, "Are you just going to stand on the opposite side of the room or are you going to come over here where I can actually see you? If you need me to, I can throw another tantrum."

Kurt actually laughed but then, just as fast, felt like he might cry.  _Only Blaine_. He moved across the room wordlessly, his eyes never leaving Blaine's face.

Before Kurt could sink down into one of the chairs already at the bedside, Blaine reached out and grabbed his wrist, "Don't you dare. You're sitting on the bed."

Kurt nodded and sat tentatively on the edge of the mattress. He flinched a little when it groaned beneath the added weight, but then reached out and rubbed his thumb over the back of Blaine's knuckles, "Your hand is cold."

"It's chilly in here," Blaine glanced toward the window, "I keep hoping it'll snow before they take me out of here—it'd be kind of nice to see…peaceful…"

Kurt glanced toward the window, too, but then directed his gaze back to Blaine, "Do you want another blanket?"

"I already have one, and I won't be in here for much longer," Blaine shrugged.

Kurt wrapped his hand in a little more securely around Blaine's.

Blaine's gaze moved over his face, "You know I love your eyes, but it'd be nice if I could see a little more of your face."

"I need to keep the mask on, Blaine."

"Are you sure? I could throw another tantrum if it means you'll take it off," Blaine smiled hopefully.

Kurt squeezed his hand, "You already made that joke."

"Did I?" Blaine's smile fell, and his gaze dropped down to his lap.

Kurt mentally kicked himself for mentioning it. He slid in a little closer to Blaine, "Hey, don't worry about it—Finn makes the same joke all the time and he doesn't have any form of an excuse except for just being Finn."

Blaine's gaze stayed on his lap.

"Blaine, hey," Kurt reached out and brushed his fingers across Blaine's cheek, "I shouldn't have said anything."

Blaine peered up at him, "Do you feel bad enough so that you're willing to take the mask off now to make me feel better?"

Kurt stared at him for a moment and then gasped indignantly, "Oh. My. God. You  _knew_  you did it twice."

Blaine fought off a smile, "I have no idea what you're talking about. I don't even know what I said twice anymore…I think my whole memory is coming apart. Do you feel bad enough  _now_?"

"Blaine Anderson, you're awful. You can't just fake tumor symptoms to get what you want!" Kurt laughed.

"It worked once before," Blaine shrugged.

"You're terrible," Kurt gave Blaine's shoulder a gentle shove.

"You love me," Blaine grinned.

"I do," Kurt smiled.

All at once it hit him again.

The surgery.

The papers.

The frailness of Blaine's hand in his.

The possibilities.

He let out a shuddering breath and that was all it took for Blaine to pull him in close.

"Shh," Despite his quiet assurances, Blaine's hands shook against Kurt's back. Or maybe Blaine wasn't shaking at all, maybe it was just Kurt.

Kurt had wanted to be brave for Blaine. He'd wanted to look strong. Instead he closed his eyes tight; fisted a hand into Blaine's hospital gown, "Can I be honest?"

"Of course." Blaine buried his nose in Kurt's hair; took a deep breath.

"I'm scared. I'm so scared." Kurt swallowed down a sob.

Blaine turned his head; nuzzled his cheek into Kurt's head, "Me, too."

"You don't seem scared," Kurt whispered.

"I think I'm in shock…or maybe they drugged the Jell-O."

"You can't eat before the surgery." Kurt shifted so that his shoulder wasn't jabbing Blaine in the ribs.

"Hmm, you're right. Just shock then, I guess," Blaine pressed his fingers a little harder into Kurt's sweater, "...Maybe we can just go. Run away right now."

"Skip the surgery?"

"Sure," Blaine's voice held just the faintest notes of a tremor, "We'll go someplace warm. Decorate a palm tree for Christmas; go snorkeling and find pearls to give each other as gifts. Somewhere with white sand beaches so it looks like snow."

Kurt smiled just a little, "I won't even pack a bag. We can leave now, and I'll buy clothes from the gift shop at the hotel."

"No hotel; we'll have a little shack on the beach," Blaine laughed quietly, "Okay?"

"Okay." Kurt sniffled hard. The smell of antiseptic soap and hospital filled his nose.

Blaine sighed, "I wish we could. I really, really,  _really_  wish we could."

"You could still ask to change your paperwork," Kurt whispered.

Blaine was quiet for a moment; his fingers brushing a slow rhythm against Kurt's skin, "I have a proposition for you. A deal of sorts."

Kurt brushed a thumb over the inside of Blaine's elbow, "IVs tend to get in the way of arm scratching, but I can try."

Blaine laughed quietly, "No, not that. Instead of our usual arm scratching for back scratching trade-off, I was thinking we could do a different sort of trade."

"What's that?"

"Song for a song?" Kurt could almost hear the smile in Blaine's voice.

Kurt blinked in confusion, but didn't move out of Blaine's hold, "Right now?"

"When else?"

"If that's supposed to be funny—"

"It's not."

Kurt swallowed hard; searched his head frantically, "I…I don't know what to sing."

"I do," Blaine pressed a kiss to the top of Kurt's head.

"Then I guess you're going first," Kurt closed his eyes, still trying to think of the right song for this moment.

Blaine nodded a little and was quiet for a moment. He took a deep breath; let it out slowly.

_I remember tears streaming down your face_

_When I said, "I'll never let you go"_

_When all those shadows almost killed your light_

_I remember you said, "Don't leave me here alone"_

_But all that's dead and gone and passed tonight_

_Just close your eyes_

_The sun is going down_

_You'll be alright_

_No one can hurt you now_

_Come morning light_

_You and I'll be safe and sound_

_Don't you dare look out your window, darling_

_Everything's on fire_

_The war outside our door keeps raging on_

_Hold on to this lullaby_

_Even when the music's gone_

_Gone_

_Just close your eyes_

_The sun is going down_

_You'll be alright_

_No one can hurt you now_

_Come morning light_

_You and I'll be—_

The door opened with a quiet click, "Blaine, sweetie? It's time to go."

Kurt tried to pull away, but he felt Blaine's fingers dig into his skin a little harder.

"Please don't make him leave yet." Blaine whispered into Kurt's chest.

"Blaine, we really need to send him back to the waiting room," The nurse replied, her voice kind.

"Please," Blaine whispered back; his hand fisting into Kurt's shirt, "Please let him stay."

Kurt opened his eyes and met the nurse's gaze. She couldn't be older than fifty. Probably a mother, "Please just give us a couple more minutes. I promise I'll go then."

She sighed, "One more minute. Your parents are going to step in for a moment, too, Blaine."

The door clicked open again and this time Kurt opened his eyes to see John and Elizabeth. He tried to move to grant them space, but even when he'd slid off the bed, Blaine clung tightly to his hand.

Elizabeth had a mask on, but she still touched a kiss to Blaine's cheek through it, "Everything's going to be okay, baby, I promise, all right? Everything is going to be okay."

Blaine pressed his forehead to his mother's; allowed her another kiss before returning a soft one on her cheek, "I love you, Mom."

John pressed a hand to the back of Blaine's head, nodded gruffly. His voice was thick but steady, "They're good doctors, Blaine; damn good doctors. They're going to get rid of this thing once and for all."

Blaine nodded shakily in response.

John opened his mouth like he wanted to say something else, closed it, opened it again, "…I love you, Blaine."

Blaine gripped his free hand over his father's wrist, "Love you, too, Dad."

Kurt stood quietly; his fingers still laced with Blaine's. When another woman in scrubs walked through the door, he made quick work of engraining the feeling of Blaine's hand into his memory. His fingers were cold, his palm clammy, the space between his thumb and index finger was dry. It wasn't how it normally felt.

"We need to get going," The nurse smiled around at all of them apologetically. She was already pulling the guardrail up on the right side of the bed; kicking up the breaks on the wheels.

Blaine nodded, he let go of Kurt's hand reluctantly, "Right, yeah…schedule to keep and all that…"

The nurse smiled, "They won't rush through anything, don't worry."

Blaine's mouth twitched up for a moment, too, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. They'd barely made it a foot before he was twisting around, "Wait!"

The bed halted with a short jerk. Blaine was already groping a hand out toward Kurt, "Kurt, I-I need to, I, just, I need—"

Kurt wrapped Blaine's hand between both of his, "What? What do you need?"

Blaine's eyes searched Kurt's face almost frantically, "You didn't get to do your song, maybe we should wait to go to the OR until—"

"Blaine." Kurt spoke his name softly; brushed his thumb over the back of his hand.

But Blaine only shook his head, "I—I know I'm being ridiculous right now and—and—I can't—the words—just… fuck…I don't—"

"Take a breath," Kurt sniffled hard to steady his own brittle breathing, "and start again."

Blaine inhaled a shallow breath and suddenly he looked a little calmer; less frantic; less desperate, but his face still held an odd intensity, "I love you. I love you a lot and I—I need you to know that, okay? B-because it's important and you're my best friend and... I-I love you."

Maybe it was Blaine's nerves or maybe it was the way his eyes flitted from Kurt's hand to his face and then back again with a strange sense of urgency, but whatever it was about Blaine, it reminded Kurt of a day that seemed like forever ago in the Dalton Senior Commons. He wasn't sure if he could actually smell tacky glue or if it was just his imagination, but it made him light headed either way. They should kiss. That should be the natural result of Blaine spilling his feelings, and Kurt wanted it so horribly; wanted to feel a familiar mouth against his. But that wasn't an option.

Kurt decided on another smaller risk. He pulled the mask down off of his mouth, made sure Blaine was looking at him. Kurt was sure there were words for this moment; there had to be some crucial message he needed to make sure echoed in Blaine's head under the murk of drugged sleep and scalpels. He couldn't think of it though, so he blurted the first words that were willing to stumble out across his tongue, "I love you. I love you more than anything."

It didn't feel quite right, but it apparently was enough for Blaine because he smiled, "There's something else I wanted to say."

Kurt watched him intently, "What?"

"I can't remember," Blaine's smile widened a little; he shook his head.

"Oh," Kurt sniffled hard.

Blaine pulled his hand free. He reached out and pressed his palm over Kurt's heart.

The gesture was calming; familiar. Kurt pressed his own hand to Blaine's chest where he could feel the pound of his heart below his fingertips.

For a flickering moment, Kurt forgot where they were and why they were there. There was only Blaine and the pressure of his hand and the honey of his eyes. They stared at one another and smiled.

There was a blank spot in Kurt's memory.

One moment Blaine's heart was beating underneath his palm, and the next Kurt was in a waiting room with a thousand pairs of eyes on him.

He took his seat between Burt and Carol, leaned his head back against the wall, and closed his eyes.

He focused on what he could swear was still a warm spot where Blaine's hand had been pressed over his sweater. When even the memory faded, he didn't know what else to do except wait.

He focused on his breathing and pretended it was Blaine's. Breathing meant they were okay, breathing meant they were alive. All he had to do was inhale, exhale.

 

_Inhale._

_Exhale._

_Inhale._

_Exhale._

 

_Inhale…._


	33. Chapter 29

Kurt couldn't sit still.

He moved from his place between his parents to an open place beside Mercedes in the first forty minutes.

The New Directions all smiled at him. Mercedes held his hand, Tina complimented his sweater, Britanny told him a story about her new pet rabbit. But when Finn offered a quiet reassurance that Blaine was probably doing great, Kurt had to get up and move again.

He took up residence on the floor with the graduated Warblers. He noted dully that the current Warblers all pressed in a little closer. He wondered absently where Trip was.

Wes squeezed Kurt's shoulder, "Hey."

Kurt offered an empty smile, "Hi… how's school going?"

"Same old," Wes shrugged, "Happy to be done for the semester. You were taking classes at Ohio State, weren't you?"

Kurt frowned. He didn't remember telling anyone from Dalton about that, "Yeah, I'm done, too…I signed up for a couple more next semester, but…"

The unfinished sentence hung in the air.

Nick picked up the conversation, "You've been working, too, right? Doing something with art design or something like that?"

Kurt met his gaze with confusion. He definitely hadn't mentioned Anthropologie to Nick, "I…yeah. I worked as a design intern at Anthropologie. I just finished up with that, too…how'd you know about that?"

Nick shrugged, "Blaine told me."

Kurt blinked, "When?"

"We have a group message thing we've kept up on Facebook," Nick looked to the others for assurance. When a few of them nodded, he turned his attention back to Kurt, "We've tried keeping tabs on each other... it's been awhile though since any of us talked…people get caught up with life and, ya know, just forget to take the time…"

Kurt bit his lip; stared down at his lap, "When he'd talk did he…did he seem happy? I know it's hard to tell through writing, but did he sound okay?"

Jeff smiled, "He always had more to say than any of us combined. Mostly questions for all of us, but he liked to talk about you a lot—basically the same old Blaine."

A few of the boys laughed.

Kurt nodded numbly and pushed himself to his feet, "Excuse me."

He dropped down into one of the empty chairs beside David.

Dave turned to look at him, but he didn't smile, "Hey."

"Hey."

David was quiet for a moment before speaking again, "I had coffee by myself last night at like three."

Kurt glanced over at him and smiled a little, "Rachel and I had coffee at five."

"My dad came down and thought I was going crazy or something," David's mouth turned up into a smile, "I guess we forget not everyone's been on our sleeping schedule."

Kurt sighed; sank lower in his chair, "Have you talked to Trip? Is he coming?"

David snorted.

"Right. Sorry." Kurt rubbed his eyes and glanced up toward the television. It was playing on mute. Subtitles rolled across the bottom of the screen a few seconds late so that no one's mouths matched up to the words.

The clock grated out another minute. The ticking was too loud to go unnoticed and it reminded Kurt, yet again, another sixty seconds had passed that could be added to the other sets of sixty seconds that had come and gone and the more seconds that stacked up, the farther he felt from Blaine.

He was antsy again.

He got up and moved to a chair beside Elizabeth.

She offered a weak smile.

He returned it.

She reached out with the hand that wasn't clutched in John's and squeezed Kurt's, "Do you remember what you said to me the last time?"

Kurt's mouth twitched into a smile, "Sometimes it's nice to have someone to hold onto."

She smiled a little, too, and squeezed his hand once.

He didn't tell her that this didn't feel the same. That last time they'd sat together in a waiting room it had felt like a muted tangle of fear and confusion. Nightmarish in its haziness and almost unreal quality and how long the journey in front of them was going to be.

Today felt too  _real_. Like the color had all been turned up too bright and it hurt to look at it. It felt too much like an ending. Kurt heard the clock grate out another minute. He gently pulled his hand free from Elizabeth's to rub his eyes, "How much time can one person spend in a waiting room?"

He hadn't meant to ask the question out loud, but suddenly most of the room was looking at him with a mixture of pity and fear.

"Talk to the right people, and they will happily argue life is but one big waiting room, my friend."

Everyone's heads swiveled to face the doorway.

Trip leaned on the doorframe with an unlit cigarette dangling between two fingers and a piece of gum in his mouth. He looked tired and a little disheveled, but when Kurt met his eyes he snapped his gum and managed an almost-smile.

"Waiting rooms inside waiting rooms," Kurt mumbled. He glanced up at the wall, "The clock on the wall of the metaphorical waiting room doesn't tick quite so loudly."

"It does for Blaine," Trip took a step inside the room and turned to look up.

"I hate that clock," Kurt dropped his head into his hands; pressed them in hard to his forehead, "I fucking hate it."

The clock was a black-rimmed thing with bold numbers and a white face that had faded cream with age. It lived behind a metal cage on the wall, and for every minute it ticked forward, it had to first move back a half step. When it grated out yet another minute, Trip rolled one shoulder and then the other, pocketed his cigarette, and crossed the room. He hooked a hand behind the back of a chair and dragging it toward the wall, he snapped his gum a few times, the sound bursting the quiet of the room like firecrackers, before climbing up on the chair.

One of the Warblers spoke up quietly, "You need a screw driver."

A slow smile pulled at the corner of Puck's mouth, "Or the corner of a credit card."

Trip held out a hand expectantly.

Puck's smile widened as he stood and offered a card.

It took a few tries and some murmured cursing, but with a loud creak, the cage suddenly came free in Trip's hands. He handed off both the card and metal to Puck.

He slid a hand experimentally around the side of the clock before giving it a soft shove. It didn't move.

He grabbed hold of it with both hands and pulled, but it remained fixed steadily in place.

"Maybe the credit card thing again," Puck suggested.

"It's attached to the wall," Trip's voice was quiet with disbelief. His hands dropped to his sides, "They put a metal cage around a clock that can't even be taken down."

The clock grated out another minute.

"Fuck you," Trip growled. He drummed his fingers against the face experimentally.

"Young man, don't you dare even think about breaking that clock. It's hospital property." Helen spoke for the first time, her voice thin but firm.

Trip looked over at her blankly before turning his attention back to the wall, "…grab me a newspaper off of the table."

The Warblers, still seated in the corner, looked around at one another, no one sure who should act. In the end, none of them had to.

David crossed the room quietly, the paper held out in one hand.

Trip met his eyes for a moment, "I only need one piece of it."

David pulled out a sheet, "Does that work?"

Trip took it silently and spread it out over the clock.

"Trip, you need tape or something," One of the younger Warblers frowned. He patted his pockets as though he might have some on hand, "You don't have anything to make it stick."

"You suffer from a bad case of functional fixedness," Trip plucked the gum from his mouth and set to work sticking down the corners of the paper, "And a lack of creativity."

Trip jumped down off of his chair and tipped his head back to study his work. An upside down month old section of the Sunday Comics stared back at him.

Everyone watched him, but he turned his attention only to Kurt, "That's the best I can do."

Kurt looked up from his hands at the comics on the wall and then at Trip, "You couldn't have picked something more quietly colored?"

"Like what? The obituaries?" Trip looked back up at the wall, "I'd call this my attempt at pleasant optimism, but Dave handed me the paper. I didn't pick it."

Kurt finally relaxed a little into his seat, "Where have you been?"

"D.C. for about twenty six hours," Trip shrugged, "Went home and pretty much just turned right back around. Mom and Dad are a bit miffed I won't be spending Christmas with them."

The clock ground out another minute. The entire room cringed.

Trip sighed, "Like I said, it's the best I can do."

"Thank you," Kurt spoke quietly.

"You can stay with me until the twenty sixth, Trip." One of the Warblers spoke up suddenly, "If you don't have somewhere else, that is. I don't think my parents will mind."

"You can come to my place after that through the thirtieth. I don't think my parents will care either." Tommy smiled a little.

"And my place after that until classes start again." A third added.

Trip looked at them in mild surprise before nodding, "Thanks."

Puck had moved back to his seat, the metal grating shoved haphazardly underneath the chairs.

Trip glanced at the open chair beside Kurt, but ended up turning toward the younger Warblers still seated in the corner. He breezed past David without so much as a sideways glance and took a seat between Tommy and Noah. He turned his gaze down to his shoes.

The room was silent again.

The ticking of the covered clock worked Kurt into a trance. He worked out rhythms with his fingers against his knee to count out each minute. Twelve taps with each finger, then twenty taps on his thumb, middle finger and pinkie, then thirty taps on his index and ring fingers. He worked out patterns until the numbers stopped making sense and each tap sent a memory skittering through his brain.

His palm tingling and a handprint on Blaine's cheek.

Blood running down the drain of the bathroom sink.

The taste of sweat and tears and paint mixing on his tongue.

Dry leaves crackling and  _YousmelllikeOctober_.

A plate shattering on the kitchen floor.

Wet jeans stuck to his legs in an ER waiting room.

Graduation caps flying through the air.

Crackling speakers and too much crepe paper in the McKinley gym.

Applause ringing in his ears and hot stage lights burning his eyes.

Snow going down the collar of his jacket as Blaine tackled him into a snow bank.

The uncomfortable sting of a summer sunburn from too much time at the beach.

Another prom and  _MayIHaveThisDance_

A too tight hug goodbye

A breathless, spinning kiss

Loud breathing and even louder shoes and a warm hand in his.

Honey colored eyes, turning to look up at him expectantly, at the base of a stairwell.

"Mister and Missus Anderson?"

Kurt's head snapped up. A doctor stood in the doorway. Kurt didn't recognize her, then again he probably wouldn't. He rarely actually  _saw_  any of the team that worked on Blaine. He took quick inventory of her and wasn't sure if he liked what he saw. She was too young and too pretty. Her skin was smooth, her posture perfect, and her nails well manicured. She wore hot pink Saucony tennis shoes and, for some reason, that detail bothered Kurt. He tried to meet her gaze, hoping to glean some of what she knew through even the shortest of glances, but her eyes were focused on John and Elizabeth as they crossed the room to her.

He didn't realize he was standing, too, until he felt himself swaying a little, his hands limp at his sides and prickling as though they'd been asleep.

"Well?" John slipped an arm around Elizabeth's waist, "Did it work? Did you get it?"

Her face remained a quiet neutral, "Yes, we were able to—"

Elizabeth let out a fluttery laugh, turned in closer to John's chest, "That's wonderful, Oh God, oh God, you got it. He could get better, he—"

As Elizabeth dissolved into a fit of fluttery laughter that sounded dangerously close to crying, and a relieved trickle of sound and hugging and exchanged smiles moved across the waiting room, Kurt kept his eyes on the doctor. The doctor glanced around the room. Her eyes moved from the Warblers camped out on the floor to Kurt to John and Elizabeth again, "Mr. and Mrs. Anderson, would you mind stepping out into the hall with me for a moment?"

Kurt tensed. Good news got announced to big rooms; good news got shouted to anyone who cared to hear it. Closed doors were bad; empty hallways were where you whispered, "I'm so sorry" and "we did everything we could". The tension that had just seemed to melt from the room came back in full force as the door clicked shut.

Kurt remained frozen in the middle of the room, his eyes fixed on the door, willing it to open. Willing Blaine to come walking through with a grin and dark curls and a song on his lips. Kurt jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Just hang tight, kid," Burt was beside him; his hand heavy and warm even through Kurt's sweater.

Kurt could hear his own breathing too loud in his ears. He had the curious sensation that all of his blood was pooling in his hands and feet. He glanced up at the clock to see how long it had been since John and Elizabeth had moved out to the hallway with the doctor who didn't have a name but had hot pink shoes, but the clock was covered. Kurt stared blankly at an upside down  _Heart of the City_ comic. He recognized it. He and Blaine had snacked on a bowl of plain Cheerios and read those same comics at his kitchen table. Blaine had spent most of the time arranging Cheerios into hearts and smiley faces on the table. He'd made a comment about the  _For Better or For Worse_  strip. Kurt couldn't remember what he said.

When the door opened again, Kurt jerked his head down so fast to look he felt something spasm in his neck.

John still had his arm around Elizabeth, but this time it looked like he was holding her up.

He cleared his throat once. Twice. When he opened his mouth to speak and nothing came out, he cleared his throat a third time.

"They think, because he's—" John coughed, "—because he's so small and his body has been fighting this so hard, there was some problems with his anesthesia…" another round of throat clearing, "…they, um, they'll know more about what's going to happen after some, um, some time has passed."

The room was eerily quiet.

It was Rachel who spoke first, her voice reedy and a little shrill, "What d-does that even mean?"

Elizabeth looked around the room, her eyes never fully focusing on anyone, "If you could all…if you could pray or keep Blaine in your thoughts, maybe it…maybe it could help."

The room was quiet again, no one sure what to do with the news.

John was staring hard at the floor, his arm still around Elizabeth, "You should all get home. Especially you kids…it's Christmastime, I'm sure your families would like to have you with them. We'll keep you all informed on Blaine once we know more."

After another weighted pause, people slowly stood. The younger Warblers shuffled out awkwardly, their eyes flitting from Kurt to the Andersons to one another. The Dalton alum stood in a solemn line by Elizabeth and John and offered a few murmured words before disappearing out the door.

Kurt still hadn't moved from his place in the middle of the room.

"I'll have my church pray for him, Kurt, like when your dad was sick," Mercedes hugged him tight.

"He's a fighter, he won't let this get him," Santana brushed a hand against the back of Kurt's wrist almost shyly.

"I know you're not religious, but I'm praying for both of you, bro." Puck clapped Kurt on the arm.

Quinn reached out and squeezed his hand. Her eyes met his, but neither one of them spoke.

Rachel threw her arms around his neck and cried until Finn pried her away. He squeezed Kurt's shoulder gently, "I'm going to take Rachel home. I'll see you back at the house, okay?"

David came next. He didn't touch Kurt, "Is there anything you want me to do?"

Kurt stared up at the comic on the wall, still trying to remember what it was Blaine had said, "There's nothing you can do."

David nodded a little, "Call if you need four AM coffee or something, okay?"

"Thank you, David," Kurt whispered.

Burt's hand on his shoulder had disappeared. He and Carol were huddled together speaking in low voices. Burt and John shook hands. Carol and Elizabeth hugged one another tightly.

Kurt turned his gaze back up to the comic. He closed his eyes and tried to remember. The only memory that came was the smell of Cheerios and coffee and Blaine's foot bumping his ankle under the table.

"Kurt," Burt's voice was suddenly right by his ear, "I told your friend he could stay at our place. Save the hassle of all of those kids trying to ask their parents and save him from moving around… I think it might be good for both of you."

Kurt tore his gaze away from the paper to look at Trip. He looked suddenly younger standing at Burt's side. He didn't know what to say, so he just nodded.

Burt squeezed his arm gently, "You wanna go say something to the Andersons?"

Kurt nodded again and walked over to John and Elizabeth wordlessly. He looked at each of them and tried to come up with something to say.

"The second we know something, you're the first one we'll call," Elizabeth tried to smile, but it looked more like a grimace, "Before Henry or anyone else. We'll call you."

Kurt blinked hard, "I…thank you."

"He's a good boy," John spoke quietly. He nodded to himself.

Whether John's words were a revelation or justification for why Blaine should wake up, Kurt wasn't sure. He didn't know how he was supposed to respond. If he was supposed to respond at all. In the end he just met John's eyes for a brief second.

"You should get going," Elizabeth spoke again, her voice eerily soft, "We're supposed to be getting a blizzard sometime today. You have a long drive."

Kurt reached out on an impulse and squeezed her hand.

As he turned to leave, he stole a glance at Helen.

She stared back at him, expressionless.

He lifted a hand in a silent goodbye anyway and then suddenly he was in the hall, his father on one side with his hand bracing one of his arms and Carol walking in step on his other side. His shoes still made the same sound. They tap, squeak, groaned all the way to the parking lot where the air was still cold and the sun was still muted underneath grey clouds.

Kurt focused on the sameness: the concrete and the sound of engines running and the sight of his own breath that curled out over his tongue in white tendrils in the December air. He resisted the urge to reach up and try to grab one. The concrete was replaced with a black dashboard but he could still see his breath when he suddenly found himself in the passenger seat of Trip's car. He shivered against the cold of the seats and watched the rear bumper of his father's truck in front of them as they pulled out of the parking lot and onto the road.

Trip glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, "You want me to turn on some music or are you digging the silent thing right now?"

"We're in waiting room inside a waiting room inside a waiting room." Kurt mumbled.

Trip's mouth twitched at the corners as though he were about to smile, but the expression died prematurely, "Maybe the clocks will be quieter in this one."

"I hope so."

Trip turned on the radio.

Neither one of them spoke for the rest of the drive back to Lima.

* * *

_Tuesday, December 22_ _nd_ _, 6:58AM_

* * *

The first phone call came in the early morning hours the following day.

John was the one to make the call. He cleared his throat twice and coughed once.

Blaine was in the ICU.

He hadn't woken up.

Kurt spent the rest of the afternoon stretched out on the couch re-watching TiVo'd episodes of  _The Bachelorette_ from the previous summer. Rachel sat at the end of the couch with his feet in her lap, "We just have to keep hoping, Kurt, okay? We can't give up hope. It's only been a day. He's just recovering."

Kurt didn't answer.

"He's just recovering," Rachel said again.

"Please, don't talk," Kurt didn't look at her, "Please."

She stiffened for a moment, but then stroked a thumb against his ankle, "Okay."

He focused on the show, and when Rachel squeezed his toes gently, he pretended she was someone else.

* * *

_Wednesday, December 23_ _rd_ _, 1:04PM_

* * *

On the second day, Kurt received his phone call early in the afternoon.

It was John again. He only coughed once.

Blaine was still in the ICU.

Blaine still hadn't woken up.

Kurt busied himself for the rest of the day wrapping Christmas presents.

Trip laid on the couch and read aloud to him. When he ran out of pages and Kurt demanded he keep talking, he recited poetry until voice was hoarse.

When Kurt asked him to keep going, Trip had to apologize. He'd run out of words.

* * *

_Thursday, December 24_ _th_ _, 6:13PM_

* * *

On the third day, Kurt was still waiting for his phone as the sky began to fade to dark blues and grays.

He sat silently on the couch, the phone in his lap and Trip's feet pressed against his hip.

Finn was seated on the floor, all of his focus invested in a video game. From time to time, he leaned too far left and bumped a shoulder against Kurt's knee and every time he did, he'd jerk around to meet Kurt's eyes and apologize.

The fifth time it happened, Finn's elbow barely grazed Kurt's shin. As expected, he twisted around quickly, "I'm—"

"It's fine," Kurt snapped, "Stop saying you're sorry and just play. Your incessant apologies are way more annoying than you hitting into my leg."

Finn held his gaze, "Right, sorry, dude—wait, I mean, I, um—"

Kurt sighed, "You're about to get shot."

"Huh?"

"Your guy in the game. He's about to—wait, he's dead."

Finn snapped his head forward again and groaned, "I'm gonna have to start all over again."

Trip licked a thumb and flipped a page in his book, "Some might call that ability a luxury."

Finn frowned in confusion and then sudden understanding dawned on his features, "I didn't mean—"

Trip waved a hand at him, his eyes still focused on his page, "It was a joke. It's fine."

Finn nodded, still looking unsettled. He glanced down at the controller in his hand and then back up at Trip, "Hey, you wanna play?"

Trip finally looked up from his book, "Me?"

Finn nodded again, "I've got, like, five more controllers."

"…Sure," Trip dog-eared the page he was on and dropped the book down on a side table. He glanced back at Kurt a he settled down onto the floor in the space beside Finn, "You in?"

"Kurt won't play," Finn shoved a spare controller toward Trip, "Kinda defeats the purpose of having a brother."

Kurt kicked the side of his foot at Finn's side.

As the boys adjusted to being back in their parent's home for the holidays, the house had felt eerily normal. Christmas music still played over the stereo and the tree had still been decorated and lit up in the family room and an array of presents wrapped in pretty paper spilled out from beneath it like any other Christmas.

The differences in the Hudson-Hummel household were small; quiet little adjustments to make up for the thing nobody would really talk about. Family dinners happened every night. Carol was constantly hugging and kissing the boys, including Trip if she could catch him off guard. Despite the attempts at normalcy with the music, and the added boost of warmth with the meals and the upped affection, the house was quiet. Somber.

Carol walked into the family room carrying a plate laden with Christmas cookies. As far as Kurt could tell, when she wasn't hugging them, she was baking. She leaned over and kissed the top of his head, "Hungry?"

He wasn't, but he offered a small smile and selected a cookie at random from the plate.

She beamed at him, kissed his cheek this time, and put the plate down on the floor between Finn and Trip.

Kurt studied his cookie in silence. It was the silhouette of an angel, still warm in his hand and glazed with pretty pink icing.

Carol watched him, "The frosting recipe was your mother's, you know. It's absolutely wonderful."

Kurt nodded.

She reached out and squeezed his shoulder over the back of the couch.

Finn moaned when his side of the screen suddenly flushed red, "Dude, not cool, I was eating, I couldn't defend myself!"

"Then you shouldn't have been eating," Trip smiled a little before picking up a cookie for himself, "Or master multitasking."

"I call a redo."

"You can't redo, there's not some sort of rewind function to—"

Kurt's ringtone silenced the room.

Finn paused the game. Carol muted the music. No one spoke.

Kurt took a steadying breath, pressed the phone to his ear, "Hello?"

"Hello, Kurt," It was Elizabeth, "Merry Christmas Eve."

"You, too," Kurt stared down at the cookie still I his free hand. He and Blaine had attempted to make cookies the year before on a chance night alone. Kurt had burned a batch when he got caught up letting Blaine suck pretty colored frosting from his fingers.

"Blaine gave us a little scare this morning…something with his blood pressure," Elizabeth's breath skittered out across her tongue and crackled against Kurt's ear in the phone, "He's better now…or as good as he was before, I guess."

The silence hung between them.

"They're going to let us in to see him today," Her voice wavered a little, "even if he doesn't know we're there, he… he shouldn't be alone on Christmas… I think it'll be nice."

"No, he shouldn't." Kurt tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry.

She hesitated again, "I wish you could come in to see him, Kurt, I really do, he'd…he'd like it so much, but the hospital—"

Kurt closed his eyes, "I know. It's okay."

Another pause.

Kurt broke it this time, "I should let you go. Thank you for calling."

"I'll call again tomorrow."

Kurt lowered his phone back to his lap.

Finn watched him carefully, "So…he's still not awake?"

"No," Kurt didn't take his eyes off of the blackened screen of his phone, "He's not."

"I'm sorry, man," Finn reached out and touched Kurt's ankle gently.

Kurt was quiet for a moment, but then he slipped to the floor, "Hand me a controller."

Finn blinked, "Huh?"

"I want to play," Kurt stared hard at the television.

"Uh, yeah, okay," Finn scrambled to dig out a third controller and handed it over. He studied Kurt for another moment, "Are you—"

"Start the game."

Although a little reluctant, Finn did as he was told.

Carol stood quietly for a moment before reaching out and resting a hand on top of Kurt's head, "Let me know if you need anything, boys."

They played in silence save for the sounds of automated gunfire and the occasional small bit of dialogue from the characters on the screen.

Kurt was terrible but nobody commented on it.

Finn finally cast him a sideways glance when he started intentionally throwing his character in the way of gunfire, "Hey, Kurt?"

"Hm?" Kurt's eyes stayed on the screen.

"You okay?" Finn glanced between the television and Kurt, "The self-sacrifice thing can be kinda cool, but, um, you're not like saving anyone or anything most of the time."

Kurt's portion of screen turned red as he, yet again, flung himself on a grenade, "Just exercising the right to keep starting over."

No one questioned Kurt's decisions for the rest of the afternoon.

* * *

_Friday, December 25_ _th_ _, 1:17AM_

* * *

Kurt lay in his bed, his eyes focused on the empty cot on his floor. He strained his ears listening for the squeak of the front door and the creak of the stairs. He let out a frustrated sigh when he heard only silence. Until Trip and Carol got home, he had no choice but to remain prisoner to his bed.

Nights were the best and worst time of the day.

Nights meant his thoughts ricocheting off the sides of his skull and his stomach twisting with unmerited nausea and his breath catching funny until he finally gave up on sleep and retreated from his bed.

That was the bad part: the initial restlessness, the sleeplessness, the worry of his parents when they constantly found him in the early morning hours curled up on the couch or with his head cradled between his arms on the kitchen table where he'd finally drifted into an exhaustion-induced sleep.

The good part was that the night held a certain kind of comfort. It was quiet; peaceful. There were no eyes tracking his every movement, no offered words of comfort, no bustling activity or tasks he had to try to attend to. It was just him and the quiet complaints of the house. The floorboards groaned about the cold, the heater hummed about how hard it worked; the lights on the tree twinkled with quiet holiday optimism. Kurt would sit in his father's old recliner, his legs drawn up close and his cheek pressed to the soft fabric and a mug of decaf cradled between his hands while he listened to the house tell him about its day.

He felt a small kick of adrenaline when the telltale hum of the garage door finally met his ears. He listened hard. The front door creaked. Shoes were toed off and coats put in the closet. There was a momentary silence where words were most likely being exchanged. When he finally heard the groan of the stairs, he closed his eyes quickly to feign sleep. He remained perfectly still and tried to make his breathing look slow and even.

He heard Trip slip in. Heard the quiet zip of a suitcase.

Normally this was where there would be the quiet rustling of clothes as Trip slipped off his jeans and shirt. A swish, swish of fabric as he settled under the blankets on the cot, and finally, the sound of his breathing slowing, the signal both that Trip was asleep and that Kurt was free to go.

He was surprised when he felt a weight sink down on his mattress, the springs sighing softly. Even more surprised when a cold hand squeezed his shoulder, "I know you're awake, Hummel."

Kurt didn't move for a moment.

Trip shook him gently, "Come on, I can't sleep either. Get up."

Kurt considered feigning sleepy confusion, but it felt like too much of an effort. He pushed himself up on his elbows. He blinked at Trip in the dusky light from the hall, "You haven't even tried to sleep. You just got home."

"I know I won't be able to, so I'm not going to waste my time trying, come on," Trip pushed himself up off the mattress.

Kurt waited a moment and then followed him, mentally whispering quiet hellos back to the floorboards that groaned beneath his feet.

Trip was surprising both in his quickness and his quiet. By the time Kurt reached the family room, Trip was already kneeling in front of the tree pushing presents out from under the branches.

Kurt didn't help him.

After nearly every present had been pushed aside, Trip rolled from his knees to his back. He met Kurt's eyes and nodded to the open space beside him.

Kurt didn't move.

Trip shrugged, lay down, and pressed his ankles into the carpet until he'd wriggled his way partway under the tree.

Kurt glanced around and finally, with a sigh, lay down. When he'd managed to fit himself in beside Trip, their shoulders bumping and fallen pine needles pricking the bare skin of his neck, he turned his head to look at Trip.

Trip glanced at him, smiled a little, "I did this every Christmas when I was a kid."

Kurt watched the blur of lights through the branches, wondered idly what the odds were of a pine needle coming loose and falling in one of his eyes.

Trip tucked a hand behind his head, "It's like its own little place away from everything else—the lights and the ornaments and the smell… I hated holiday parties and all of that other shit that comes along with Christmas, but I always liked the tree."

"And apparently midnight mass," Kurt glanced over at him.

"And midnight mass," Trip nodded, "You should have come."

"I don't associate with churches."

Trip reached a hand up and touched the bottom of a red Christmas bulb. He coaxed it into spinning lazy circles, "Midnight Mass is nice; people aren't restless to just get the hell out of there like they are during the daytime services. It's quiet and there's candles and good music… it's like a bigger version of this. You'd have liked it."

Kurt turned his gaze back upward. He spied the bottom of a popsicle stick reindeer he'd made when he was six high up in the tree, "It's Christmas."

Trip pulled the red bulb from the branch and presented it to Kurt like a gift, "It is."

Kurt took the ornament; rolled it between his fingers, but kept his eyes on the branches above him, "It's just…strange. Parents pretend to be Santa Clause and kids get up at four in the morning to see their presents and people are so…so happy."

"And you're unhappy," Trip supplied.

"I don't feel anything," Kurt shook his head, "I get restless and anxious, but that's it. I sit out here every night and I feel… nothing."

"I think that's called shock," Trip laced his fingers across his ribs, "Or maybe it's three level waiting room syndrome."

"Maybe."

"So your inability to feel is the thing keeping you up all night every night?" Trip turned his head toward Kurt, eyebrows raised.

"No," Kurt replaced the bulb on its branch carefully, "I'm terrified of waking up to a world that's different than the one I closed my eyes on."

"Then you should've given up sleep a long time ago, pal, because you  _do_  wake up to a different world everyday."

Kurt inhaled another deep breath scented with pine, "You know what I mean."

"I know what you mean," Trip agreed.

Kurt rubbed his fingers along the edge of the tree stand cover below them. His fingers caught on a snare in the fabric, "Why can't you sleep tonight?"

Trip was quiet for a moment, "I met Blaine on Christmas Day last year… and you know what's driving me fucking insane?"

Kurt glanced at Trip.

"I…I can't remember what he was wearing. He had on a grey Henley and red cardigan the next day, a blue striped sweater the day after that…but I don't remember what he was wearing on that fucking first day," Trip let out a quiet breathless laugh, but there was no humor in it, "and it's eating me alive."

"I can't remember what he said about a  _For Better or For Worse_  comic from almost a month ago."

"Unless he plans on telling us, I guess we'll never know," Trip smiled grimly, "Another waiting room."

"I'm so sick of waiting," Kurt spoke to the branches of the tree, "I feel like we've been waiting since that day in the parking lot for this thing to be over with…but at the same time I don't want it to end. I'm—"

"I know." Trip nodded.

Kurt let out a long breath, "I think I hate Christmas."

"Bah Humbug," Trip mumbled.

They both fell silent.

As the sun began to rise, the ornaments on the tree lost their gleam of joy and stopped whispering to Kurt about how much they loved the holidays; the light between the branches moved from inky black to hazy gray and finally milky blue; floorboards creaked upstairs beneath sleepy feet.

Despite Kurt's stillness, the retreat beneath the tree lost its magic. The night was nearly over.

His parents would come downstairs and coax him into drinking a cup of coffee and try to persuade him into a nap upstairs or at least on the couch.

Finn would fret and frown and trip over himself trying to simultaneously be helpful and stay out of the way.

His phone, at some point, would ring and he'd listen to John or Elizabeth wish him a Merry Christmas before telling him what he already knew.

There would be presents to open, quiet thank you's and embraces to exchange, strained smiles offered to one another for a holiday that didn't feel like a holiday.

Trip was right, whether he slept or not, the world was a new place.

Trip sighed and wriggled his shoulders out from under the tree. He tapped a finger against Kurt's shin, "Your dad's up. You coming out from under there or what?"

Kurt could feel a stiffness forming in his neck; a nagging ache making itself known in the small of his back from lying so long on the hard floor, but he didn't move. He couldn't, "I want to keep waiting."


	34. Chapter 30, Pt. 1

Kurt kneeled on a chair at the kitchen counter, humming to himself as he cut strawberries. He was getting good at making some smaller meals by himself and he especially prided himself on his breakfast creating abilities. Today it was waffles (admittedly, they were of the frozen Eggo variety) with strawberries, syrup, and powdered sugar.

The waffles sprang up in the toaster just as the teakettle began a low whistle. Perfect timing as usual. Kurt pushed the kettle off of the burner just as the whistle was turning into a more full-blown wail. He poured the water (carefully, he'd learned his lesson about burning himself with the water the hard way already) into a waiting mug. He dropped a teabag in before turning to tend to the toaster.

He'd placed the waffles on the plate and had just begun the slow process of artfully arranging strawberries around the edge when a voice caught him off guard.

"It smells wonderful in here, sweetie, what are you making over there?"

He was so startled that he dropped the strawberry in his hand. He bent quickly to pick it up, but it left a pink stain on the linoleum. He snatched a paper towel from off of the countertop, his eyes on his mother as he scrambled to wipe up the smudge, "Mom, what're you doing out of bed? I was going to bring your tea up in just a minute, I just got it off—"

She laughed and the sound was even more alarming than her sudden presence in the kitchen. It was big and full and happy. The way she used to laugh. "Calm down, honey, I came down to sit with you."

He looked her over and his confusion only grew. She wasn't in the blue silk pajamas she'd been wearing for almost the past two weeks. She had on lavender colored t-shirt and jeans (that were, admittedly, too big now) and she'd obviously taken the time to put make up on and even her wig.

"Do you have a doctor's appointment today?" Kurt frowned, "Dad already went to work, did he forget?"

"No, sweet boy, can't a girl just want to look nice and eat breakfast with the cutest boy she knows?" She winked.

He smiled a little, still feeling anxious. Saturday Mornings were as routine as Friday Nights. They meant listening to his dad leave for work at six, getting out of bed at six fifteen, peaking into his parents room to ensure his mother was still sleeping soundly, getting dressed, making breakfast for himself and tea for his mother, and then spending the rest of the morning on his father's side of the bed with his toys while she slept with a movie playing on the little TV mounted on the wall for background noise.

Routines were important. Routines were what made his abnormal life feel normal. But this particular breach in Saturday Morning Protocol wasn't the sort of break from normal he feared… it was a nice thing.

His smile widened a little and he went quickly over to the kitchen table to pull out a chair for her, "Sit down and I'll bring your tea to you. What do you want to eat?"

"You don't want my help?"

He shook his head adamantly. If she helped, she might get tired and need to go back to bed, or, worse, she might faint like she had that one time that felt like forever ago, "No, I can do it."

She smiled and sat down in the offered chair, "What are you eating?"

"Waffles with strawberries," He pointed to his plate on the counter, "I can make you something different though that won't hurt your tummy."

She propped her chin in her hands on the table, "Could you make me just plain waffles?"

He looked at her in mild surprise. She rarely stomached anything other than Ensure drinks that his father stockpiled above the refrigerator and the occasional piece of toast. He recovered from his surprise quickly, though, and went to the freezer.

He was on edge as he worked. When he brought her tea to her, she asked if he'd mind bringing the honey to the table (he couldn't remember the last time she'd put anything in her tea other than a squeeze of lemon), but he complied all the same. When her waffles had popped up and he'd brought both of their plates to the table, he watched her carefully.

He knew that she filled her plate for Friday Night Dinners but never did more than push her food around her plate. He knew she tried to make it seem like this was not so by occasionally lifting her empty fork to her mouth while he was talking so it would look like she was eating. He knew it was an effort for her to even make it down the stairs most days.

She pulled a piece of waffle free with her hands and popped it into her mouth. She chewed, swallowed; smiled, "You know, I don't think I've had waffles since before you were born."

"Dad buys them a lot," Kurt couldn't tear his eyes away from her long enough to take a bite of his own food.

"Does he?" She took another bite of her food; her head tilted thoughtfully, "If there's ever anything you want from the store, honey, just tell your dad and have him put it on the list, alright?"

He didn't tell her that he was usually the one that made the grocery lists, "Okay."

Her eyes drifted down to his plate, "Do you not like yours, baby? You haven't touched your food since you sat down."

"I…" He looked down at his untouched food. He'd ended up just dropping a handful of sloppily cut strawberries onto the middle of his plate. They were bloating his waffles with pink, sticky juice and the powdered sugar was congealing into a strange paste with the syrup, "I'm not really hungry anymore."

"No?" She'd finished one of her two waffles, but she didn't reach for the second, "Is something the matter, sweet boy?"

He shook his head, "No."

She studied him quietly, "Is having me down here confusing you?"

He met her eyes and felt a blush creep into his cheeks. Had he made it that obvious?

She smiled, "Mothers can read their baby's minds, remember?"

He smiled a little, too, but then looked back down at his plate, "I like you down here, I just wasn't used to it. Usually I bring you tea and then I eat breakfast and then I come sit with you."

"You have a routine you follow," Her voice was soft, understanding.

He nodded mutely.

She reached across the table and brushed her fingers over his, "Nothing's wrong, baby, I just feel very good today, and I wanted to come spend some time with you. Do you remember what you and I used to do on Saturday mornings?"

He looked up at her and smiled a little, "We baked."

"That's right, we did," She nodded toward the fridge, "Would you like to do that today?"

Kurt bit his lip. What if it made her too tired? Or what if she fainted like that one time? Or what if his dad came home and was upset because she was supposed to be resting?

"Honey, if you want, we can do what we normally do and relax in my bed," She squeezed his hand a little tighter, "But I promise I feel good enough to do this. If I need to rest, I'll tell you, okay? I'm not tricking you right now."

Kurt hesitated for a moment more before breaking out into a smile, "Lets do it."

"Have I ever showed you how to make pantry cookies?"

Kurt shook his head, "What're those?"

"You make cookies out of whatever you can find," She motioned a hand toward the pantry, "Go see what you think we can use."

Kurt craned his head back and looked over the shelves, "Oatmeal?"

He could hear her going to the sink with their plates, "Oatmeal works, what else?"

Kurt bit his lip, "Um…nothing."

"No chocolate chips? Toffee pieces? M&Ms? Peanuts?" She was opening the dishwasher.

"No… just cereal, bread, cans of soup, some beef jerky, and the tea."

"No peanut butter?"

"We ran out." Secretly, Kurt was relieved. He'd eaten more peanut butter and jelly sandwiches over the past few months than he cared to remember.

"Hm…I guess we're making oatmeal cookies then," His mother sighed, clearly disappointed.

"We're out of flour," Kurt felt strangely guilty as he peaked out of the cupboard to look at his mother, "I'm sorry, I should have told Dad."

"Oh, sweetheart, no, it's not your fault," She rested a hand on her hip; tapped her foot, "Do you want to have a tea party?"

Kurt lit up and bobbed his head up and down quickly.

She laughed, "I thought so…and you know what? It's a beautiful day, lets take it outside."

Together they managed to maneuver his little table and two chairs down the stairway and out the backdoor. By the time they made it outside, Kurt knew his mother was tired. He could see it etched into her face.

He reached for her hand and squeezed. Her palm was clammy, "Mommy, you sit here and rest. I'll get it set up, 'kay?"

She sank gratefully into one of the little chairs, "Thank you, sweetheart."

Kurt sang quietly to himself while he set up their table just right. Plastic scones and petit fours and cookies artfully arranged on tiny glass plates. Undersized teacups placed just so beside neatly folded napkins.

"You're so talented, Kurt," His mother spoke softly.

Kurt looked up, blushed a little, "I set it up a lot."

"Not just your tea set, but that is lovely, too," She smiled at him, " I was taling about your voice. It's beautiful."

Kurt's eyes dropped back down to the table, "Noah Puckerman says I sing like a girl."

She sighed and held out her arms to him, "Come here, baby, I want to talk to you about something."

Kurt stepped closer until his hips bumped her knees. He could feel his cheeks burning hot with sun and shame as he waited for her to speak.

She wrapped her hands gently around each of his arms, "Remember how Daddy and I have always told you everyone is special?"

Kurt nodded, "Like stars."

She brushed her thumbs over the soft skin in the bend of his arms, "Yes…but some stars shine a little brighter than others. You're like that, Kurt, you're extra special."

He smiled at the compliment.

"But sometimes, honey, people don't understand people who are a little different and they try to make you not shine so bright."

"So that I'll be just like them." Kurt wasn't sure that sounded so bad. It'd be kind of nice to have a bigger group of friends, "…what's wrong with that?"

She smiled and cupped a hand over his cheek, "You don't want to be just like them, Kurt."

"I kind of do," Kurt felt his cheeks warm and he wondered if his mother could feel the blush on her palm, "I'd have more friends."

"You're going to get something even better, Kurt," She stroked her thumb over his jaw, "You're going to find people who shine bright just like you. It might take longer to make friends than some of the other kids, but it'll be even more worth it."

Kurt considered the kids at school. There were some weird ones for sure—Rachel Berry who talked so loud and so much that their teacher had given her a limited number of times she was allowed to speak in a day. Tina Cohen-Chang who didn't talk at all. And that one kid who sat in the back and ate his boogers. He wasn't so sure they would be considered "bright stars", "I don't think I know anyone the exact same as me."

"No one ever will be, honey," She pressed a kiss to his forehead, "He'll be different from you, but he'll see how special you are and love you for it just like I do."

"How do you know it's gonna be a boy?" Kurt frowned. He usually only got along with his girl classmates, he hadn't really thought about this alleged extra special friend potentially being a boy.

"Sometimes mommies just know things," She gave him a funny smile, kissed his cheek, and finally released him, "So what kind of tea are we having today, special boy?"

Kurt smiled and took his place at the other side of the table.

They never talked about stars or tea parties or the special boy who would one day be Kurt's friend again.

* * *

David felt oddly heavy and relieved all at once. Like his shoulders were lighter but the tension in his muscles remained wound tight.

He'd returned to the apartment in Columbus on Christmas night. In Lima, he'd seen his father, he'd done everything he wanted to do; there was no point in staying. He'd outgrown the town, outgrown the skeletons and whispered memories of that place, and he wanted nothing more than to get back out, to return to the apartment where Kurt and Blaine turned the music up too loud and rolled up the rug in the family room so they could dance on the wood floor in their socks, where Trip lay stretched out in his bed with one foot dangling off the edge of the mattress while he talked about things and places David had never even heard of, where the four of them lived in a dysfunctional, noisy little bubble of bad coffee and scrapped paper cranes hiding underneath the kitchen table and ties over door handles to signify Do Not Enter.

But when David got back to the apartment, he knew it wouldn't be walking in on Trip standing on tiptoe in the kitchen to pull down a glass for water or Kurt seated on the floor with an open text book and Blaine stretched out on the couch behind him, tickling the back of Kurt's neck while he tried to study.

The rug would be neat on the floor, his bed empty, and the space would silent, and he couldn't help but wonder if this place would soon be just a whisper of a memory, too.

What he didn't expect were the flower arrangements. They say quiet and unassuming in the hallway just outside the door—two poinsettias, three vases of carnations, a bouquet of clown colored gerbera daisies, and a wreath that looked like it had been pulled from someone's wall. He brought them with him into the apartment and left them in the middle of the too empty family room floor before retreating to his bedroom where he wouldn't have to watch ghosts laugh and dance and flit around the rest of the apartment.

Kurt's return to the apartment the following morning would have been a surprise if David hadn't been shocked by a phone call even earlier that day.

His phone had rung at nearly six in the morning and he'd answered in a groggy mumble. When he recognized the voice on the other side of the line as Burt Hummel, he'd immediately sat up, smoothed his hair; listened carefully.

"Kurt's coming back to the apartment," He'd stated, his tone flat.

"Okay," David had replied, "I, um, does he have his key? Do I need to be listening for him?"

"Of course he has his key, he's a responsible kid," Burt had snapped.

"Right, um, right." David had nodded quickly as though Burt might actually be able to see him.

"I still don't know how I feel about you, Kid." Burt had growled.

David hadn't known what to say to that, so he'd mumbled, "Thank you for giving me a chance anyway."

Burt had been quiet for a moment and then he'd sighed, his breath loud against Dave's ear, "We wanted him to stay here for a couple more days. He's not fully himself right now…please…please try to keep an eye on him when you can."

David had nodded again, this time for himself, "Yeah, yeah, of course."

It was barely half an hour later that David heard the creak of the front door, Kurt's shoes on their entry mat, a suitcase being dragged across the floor.

David sat quietly on the couch and watched Kurt through his open bedroom door, "Hey."

Kurt shoved his still full suitcase into the bottom of his closet with a foot, "Hey."

"Wasn't expecting you back for a day or two." David watched as Kurt floated from his bedroom to the bathroom.

Kurt turned on the sink, stuck a wrist under the tap to inspect the temperature, "I'm not staying. I'm going to the hospital."

David perked up a little, "Did Blaine—"

"No." Kurt cupped his hands below the water and splashed it over his face.

"Oh," David wilted back against the couch, "I'm sorry."

Kurt scrubbed a towel over his face, "Me, too."

"So are you…are you just going to see him?"

"I can't see him," Kurt abandoned the towel on the counter, stared at himself for a moment in the mirror.

"What're you going to do, then?"

Kurt turned out of the bathroom. He stepped over the vases of flowers in the middle of the room without ever looking at them and went to the hall closet. He pulled out a jacket; shrugged it over his shoulders, "If I have to keep waiting, I'm going to do it as close to him as I can get."

And then he was gone.

David wondered if he should call Burt Hummel—tell him it was a little hard to keep an eye on Kurt when he ghosted in and out of their apartment so fast, he could have been missed in a blink, but instead he opted to wait it out. When midnight hit and Kurt still wasn't home, he reconsidered calling Burt and wondered absently how likely it was that Burt might actually kill him.

His phone debate was ended when Kurt slipped through the door not twenty minutes later.

"Where the hell have you been?" David flinched at the anxiety in his voice. He sounded like an upset parent.

Kurt blinked at him as though a little surprised to see him, "They wouldn't let me stay the night."

They stared at one another in silence.

"You going to bed?" David finally broke the quiet when he couldn't take Kurt's sad eyes on him anymore.

Kurt blinked, slow and doll-like, "I haven't been sleeping well."

David nodded slowly, "You gonna just stay up then?"

"I guess," Kurt glided into his room, but he was back a moment later, a leather bound journal cradled close to his chest. He burrowed himself between the arm and back of the other side of the couch and drew his knees up close to his chest, the book still secured in his arms like a security blanket.

David wondered if Kurt always moved so quietly or if he was just hyperaware of it. He glanced at the book face down on his own lap and then back at Kurt, "Are you, um, reading anything good?"

"Not yet," Kurt murmured, he laid his cheek against the back of the couch, "…it sounds different here."

David strained his ears. He couldn't hear anything, "Like the heater sounds louder? The dishwasher isn't running or anything."

"No," Kurt shook his head, "It's quieter."

"I guess it is…people might be gone for Christmas stuff still," David shrugged, "Did Rachel and Quinn go back to New York?"

"They're delaying their flights for a few days." Kurt pulled his knees in even closer, shivered.

David pulled the blanket off of the back of the couch and offered it wordlessly.

Kurt unhooked one hand from around the journal and took it. He looked at it with mild interest for a moment before looking back at David, "What's this for?"

"You looked cold," David stretched back over the arm of the couch and tried to see their thermostat in the dim light, "We could turn up the heat, I still had it set pretty low from when we were gone."

"It's okay," Kurt cocooned himself in the blanket, "I'm okay."

David watched him, "If you're not—"

"I am," Kurt cut him off, nodded again, "I'm okay."

David noted Kurt's foot poking out from under the blanket. He reached over, covered it, "Okay."

Eventually, David persuaded Kurt to go lie down for a few hours, but if he slept at all, David wasn't aware of it. Kurt was gone long before dawn and didn't return until late—his eyes glassy and blank, his movement mechanical and smooth—he spent the night floating from the kitchen to the bedroom to the bathroom to the family room. He'd perch for a moment on the edge of a chair beside the table, move to the couch where he'd stare down at the other end for a minute before getting up and going to the kitchen where he'd trace his fingers along the countertops.

David watched him quietly and tried to work out the method to Kurt's movements; a map for where he chose to go and why he went there. He felt something sharp twist somewhere behind his ribs with sudden realization.

Kurt was following memories of Blaine.

Blaine at the table with him eating a bowl of Cheerios and staring at the back of the cereal box.

Blaine napping on the couch, his feet cradled in Kurt's lap.

Blaine sitting on the edge of the kitchen counter, kicking his feet against the cabinets below in a steady beat and singing along to the stereo while Kurt made chocolate dipped strawberries.

Blaine snaking his arms around Kurt's waist in the bathroom; nuzzling his nose into his neck and teasing him about the length of his face washing routine.

Blaine painted across Kurt's life, sewn in tight. And now missing.

David didn't try to persuade Kurt to sleep. Instead, he spent the night on the couch watching over Kurt between accidental naps.

Kurt spent the night wandering the apartment looking for Blaine.

When the morning of the seventh day finally came, David watched silently as Kurt continued his maze around the apartment.

He opened doors on cupboards only to close them again, pulled out drawers and stared into them like he was waiting for something to appear.

He disappeared into the bathroom where David heard a shower running. He strained his ear for a few minutes listening, trying to ensure Kurt was actually showering and not just watching the way the steam fogged over the mirror. When he heard nothing, he knocked quietly, "Hey, Kurt?"

"Yes?" The response was faint.

David rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, "Are you…are you, um…you're actually taking a shower right now, right?"

"Yes."

David nearly breathed out a sigh of relief but then, just as fast, he couldn't. There was something depressing about Kurt's response. No snark, no indignation, no icy words thrown back in sudden irritation. Just a quiet, minimal response like there wasn't any fight left in him.

David waited patiently; though his usual patience with Kurt's dragged out getting ready routine was unnecessary.

Kurt styled his hair without fussing over any invisible loose strays, he dressed in a cream colored sweater and jeans without a stupid hat or artfully wrapped scarf, he adorned the sweater only with a pink-tinted gold feather pin. He didn't ask David for an opinion on his hair, his outfit, or how his ass looked in his jeans.

He spent a minute staring at himself in the mirror before pulling a jacket from the closet and buttoning himself inside with steady fingers.

When he finally lifted his keys from his nightstand and drifted toward the front door, David intercepted him and pulled the keys gently from his hand.

"I'll drive."

He didn't have to hold his breath and pray for minimal fighting. Kurt followed after him without complaint.

David watched Kurt out of the corner of his eye at every stoplight.

Kurt stared down at his hands in his lap like he wasn't entirely sure if they were his or not.

"I, um, I talked to your dad earlier this morning," David ventured, "…they're gonna meet us there."

Kurt kept staring at his lap. He nodded a little.

"Are you cold or anything? Do you want me to turn the heat up?"

"I'm fine." He whispered.

David reached over and punched the button for his seat heater anyway, "You want coffee or anything before we get there? I know you didn't exactly sleep last night."

"No, thank you." Kurt brushed the fingers of his left hand over the back of his right.

"I…" David let out a long breath, "Is there anything I can do? Do you want… I don't know, do you want something?"

"Blaine," Kurt's eyes moved to the window, "I want Blaine."

David cringed at his own stupidity, "Shit, Kurt, I'm sorry, I wasn't—"

Kurt shook his head.

They didn't talk for the rest of the ride over.

When they arrived at the hospital, David followed after Kurt as he navigated the halls and the elevators with practiced ease and soon they were back in another waiting room.

The waiting room, seven days after Blaine's surgery, was full once again.

It was a different room from the first one. The carpet brown instead of cream, the upholstery on the chairs dark red instead of blue, the television never turned on, the clock nearly silent.

David watched Kurt glide into a seat beside his father before seating himself in an empty chair.

His eyes glided over the room, taking inventory of the people there.

They younger Warblers were absent this time, but the older ones were all there. They sat straight in their seats, their hands folded neatly in their laps, and their eyes downcast.

Blaine's grandmother was absent—perhaps back home or just gone for coffee, David couldn't be sure.

The New Directions were all there—they sat in a row, heads leaned together and arms cast over shoulders and hands meshed together until they were just one long tangle of people.

He found Trip last. He was slouched low in a chair on the opposite side of the room. He held a lighter in his right hand, rhythmically dragging the pad of his thumb over the thumbwheel, but no flame ever appeared. He met David's gaze for a brief second, but then his attention was immediately back on his lighter.

Elizabeth and John Anderson were absent, buried somewhere deep in the honeycomb of hallways and rooms and people with Blaine and his doctors.

David looked up at the clock, wondered dully when exactly they'd extubate Blaine.

Maybe it had already happened.

Maybe he'd stopped breathing the second the tube had come out.

Maybe Elizabeth was crying into John's shoulder and Blaine's lips were already bluing.

Maybe the doctor with the hot pink tennis shoes and manicured nails was on her way down to the waiting room to tell them the bad news right now.

Or maybe Blaine had opened his eyes and frowned that worried frown that made his forehead wrinkle and his eyebrows draw in close together.

Maybe he'd looked up at all of those sad, shocked faces around him and apologized for scaring them all so much.

Maybe he was walking—no, running, he'd be running—down the hall at that exact moment to come and find Kurt.

Maybe…

John and Elizabeth appeared in the doorway below the clock, and for a moment David stared.

He only really knew them from a couple brief encounters—once when he'd stopped by the Andersons to awkwardly deliver a box of popsicles for Blaine and the last time he'd been at the hospital in a waiting room like the one they were in now. On both occasions, they'd been carefully put together; their hair neat, postures perfect, clothes immaculate.

Today they were both still dressed well, but they looked different…wilted. Their clothes were wrinkled; their postures weary. She folded an arm around herself to link fingers with the arm he had tucked around her waist. Neither one of them spoke for a moment.

"They…" Elizabeth started, but her voice faded to silence. Her eyes moved over everyone's faces like maybe one of them could explain something to her instead.

John picked it up, his voice was quiet, "They, um, they extubated him… he's…he's still breathing on his own which is…which is good, but he's been on, um, on a ventilation system where he was already breathing for himself in a sense, it just, it made it…"

John cleared his throat, opened his mouth, but no more words came. 

A tense silence hung in the room as though no one quite knew what to make of the news... or maybe nobody wanted to know.

"So now what?" One of the Warblers finally spoke, his voice trembling. David strained his memory searching for a name until he thought maybe he knew…no, he was sure, it was Wes.

Elizabeth spoke again, her voice brittle and quiet, "They, um, they're making sure…making sure he's comfortable. He's… he w-won't be in any pain."

David felt his stomach shift; felt the blood in his hands and feet suddenly rush too fast to his heart until he was dizzy and nauseous. He was vaguely aware of people crying.

He'd known it was a possibility, but it had never seemed real. When he thought of Blaine, small and sick and sewn back together somewhere in a hospital bed, it was always in terms of "when he wakes up", not "if". Never "if". 

That was never how it was supposed to turn out.

It wasn't supposed to go like this.

People weren't supposed to sit in a waiting room and wait for an eighteen year old kid to die, especially not when that kid was Blaine.

Blaine had a whole life ahead of him.

Blaine had New York and college and Kurt.

Or maybe he didn't. David tried to imagine an older Blaine—a Blaine with graying hair and crows feet at the corners of his eyes and the sharper features of someone older than twenty, but he couldn't. He could only see Blaine at the McKinley graduation—all dark curls and big eyes and a grin while he tickled Kurt's cheek with the tassel on his hat. Young.

Then again he couldn't see himself as an older adult either or Kurt or Trip or any of the other college kids in the room, but they weren't supposed to be able to see themselves as real adults. Not yet.

They were  _supposed_  to not care about being forty or aching joints or music that was too loud. They were supposed to be invincible and young, so young that aging didn't even occur to them.

It wasn't supposed to go like this.

Kurt was still sitting perfectly straight in his chair. He blinked at John and Elizabeth like maybe he hadn't quite heard them before turning to look at his father.

"I don't remember the last time I saw Mom."

For a moment the room was quiet again, everyone watching Kurt, but Kurt didn't seem to see any of them except Burt.

"The last thing I remember was taking the tea set outside on a Saturday morning with her—and then I didn't see her again," Kurt was staring hard at his father, "I don't remember ever seeing her again."

Burt's eyes shone wet and glossy, but he held Kurt's gaze and nodded, "She took a bad turn that night. You came to see her in the hospital."

"You can go see him, Kurt," Elizabeth spoke again, her voice whisper quiet, "They have him in a private room now, you can—"

Kurt shook his head, apparently unsatisfied with his father's response and Elizabeth's offer, "That's not… I got a day with Mom. I got one day and she got one day where it was like she wasn't sick at all, and that's the day I remember as the last time I saw her. That's, when you have to get sick like that, it's the one good thing. The one thing that's better than it happening fast like a car accident or something—you get to have a last really good day. Blaine didn't—he hasn't had his day, his day where he felt better all of the sudden so he could...he should still wake up, he's just--we just have to… maybe…"

The sound of chair legs scraping against the carpet and a sudden flash of movement caught David's attention. He tore his eyes away from Kurt just fast enough to see Trip disappearing out the door.

The quiet shattered. People were talking and crying and moving—some trying to placate Kurt, others trying to comfort one another, some still crying silently on there own. David wondered for a moment if the sound had been there all along and he'd just been ignoring it.

He got to his feet, but hesitated, torn as to which way to go.

Kurt was still in his chair, still blinking around at people like he couldn't quite understand what any of them were saying or why they kept trying to touch him. Burt had an arm around him, his mouth close to his ear so David couldn't discern what was being said.

With one final look back, David moved out of the waiting room and into the hallway. He glanced both ways and felt a small wave of relief when he saw Trip farther down the hall.

He walked slowly and tried to get a handle on the nausea still boiling in his stomach.

He passed patients in wheelchairs, doctors studying charts, and women in scrubs giggling together at a nurses' station.

Their lives weren't ending. Their people were still safe.

David thought dizzily about how many of them had sat in a waiting room like the one behind him, though. How many of them had watched hope shrink smaller and smaller.

David followed Trip's path until he arrived at a heavy metal door, CHAPEL painted in white block letters across the front, a wooden cross nailed above the doorframe. He wondered absently if the cross was attached to the wall like the clocks or if it could be easily removed. He pushed his way quietly through the door into the little space.

It wasn't like the rest of the hospital—it was all dark wood and flickering candles; maroon carpet and pretty statues glinting with gilded gold. The faint smell of antiseptic reminded David of the rest of their surroundings.

The chapel was nearly empty—a few scattered people sat on the pews with heads bowed and eyes closed.

Trip stood in the middle of the aisle, his posture neat, and his hands shaking at his sides.

David approached him quietly, "Hey."

Trip didn't look at him, "Shouldn't you be with Kurt?"

"He's got too many people hovering over him already," David glanced toward the front of the chapel then back at Trip, "I wanted to check on you."

"Today isn't about you or me. It's about Blaine," Trip swallowed, glared straight ahead, "I-it's about—it's not about me and you."

"I know," David almost reached out to touch his hand, but stopped himself, "That doesn't mean you're not hurting. You told me once…you told me he's your best friend."

Trip's eyes flickered toward him for a moment but then quickly back forward again, "Stop being so nice to me."

David allowed the back of his hand to graze Trip's, just enough contact to register the warmth of his fingers, "Why?"

Trip jerked his hand away, "I slept with someone."

David looked down at the floor, "I know."

"I've been sleeping with him a lot." Trip's hands flexed open then fisted shut again.

"I know." David said again. He watched Trip's hands instead of his face. His hands always said so much more than anything his face would ever give away, but his next words had David snapping his head back up.

Trip's voice was shaky; small, "Are you mad?"

David tried to search Trip's face, but his eyes were still focused firmly ahead, "No."

"Why not?" Trip finally looked at him, "Why aren't you upset with me?"

"I didn't say I wasn't upset," David spoke quietly; a little more mindful of the people around them than Trip, "I'm hurt and I'm sad…really freaking sad, but I'm not mad at you."

Trip's eyes moved forward again, "Maybe you should be."

"Why would I be mad at you?" David took a bold step closer.

Trip stared hard at the cross at the front of the church, his expression twisted with pain, "I'm not a good person, David. I don't go out of my way to do anything worthy of anyone's love. Not like Blaine."

"You're not a bad person; I've told you that before and I meant it," David swallowed, "And maybe you don't bend over backwards to try and make people like you but that doesn't mean that I… that I don't still love you."

"You shouldn't," Trip's jaw worked for a moment, "I don't deserve it."

"Yes, you do," David spoke quietly, "I wish I was braver for you or that I could take back what I did…I—I know it doesn't change anything—but, for whatever it's worth, I tried to find all of those guys while I was back in Lima…to tell them."

Trip was looking at him again, confusion and anger battling for control of his face, "What?"

David nodded, "Most of them were out of town, but…Azimio and a couple others were home. I told them the truth."

"You didn't have to do that."

"I wanted to," David shifted his weight from one foot to the other, "It felt… It felt good."

Trip looked at him for a long time, "…I miss you, David."

"I miss you, too." Dave sniffled; swallowed thickly.

Trip closed his eyes; opened them again. Without warning, he sank to his knees. He lifted a shaky hand and touched it to his forehead; his chest; his left and right shoulder.

"W-what are you doing?" David looked around uncomfortably and then back down at Trip.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Trip whispered back; his head still bowed, his fingers laced together but held low as though they were too heavy to keep up.

"I guess I thought you didn't believe in this stuff," David avoided the eyes of the people that had suddenly peaked up from their prayers to watch.

"I have to believe in this stuff, David. I need it to be real," Trip's shoulders were beginning to tremble; "I have to believe that there's some sort of fucked up cosmic reason Blaine's five minutes from dead and I'm still alive after all of the shit I've pulled. I need to believe that there is a  _reason_ Kurt's in their looking like a fucking ghost while I get to have—"

With one last look around, David lowered himself to the ground too; he was still a solid head taller than Trip when they were both on their knees. He reached out a tentative hand to Trip's shoulder, "Hey, listen—"

The second David's fingers brushed his sleeve, Trip was collapsed into his chest; his hands gripping at Dave's shirt for some sort of support and a choked sob spilling out of his mouth, "It's n-n-not fair; it's s-so fucking unf-f-fair."

For a moment Dave stared down at the top of Trip's head in alarm; tried to process the scrabbling hands and the sound of Trip's voice choked with so much pain. Shocked by the display or not, David's arms went around him immediately to hold him close. He lowered them down until he was sitting on the backs of his heels and rocked them gently. He didn't know if he was doing this right—didn't know if there was a  _right_  way to do this; to comfort someone when they fall apart—all he knew was that Trip was crying and he wanted it to stop; he wanted to make it better, he  _had_  to make it better, "It's gonna be okay, shhh, it's all gonna be okay."

Trip's hand curled in tighter to David's shirt, "Y-you d-d-don't know that, you c-can't know th-that. B-Blaine's fucking d-d-dying, there's nothing o-okay about that."

David tried to come up with something, anything to say back, but there was nothing to be said that could make this better. He squeezed Trip in closer, buried his face in his hair and hoped like hell it would be enough.

It took a few minutes—though Dave would have waited hours and days and weeks if it were what needed to happen—but Trip eventually quieted until just his shoulders shook with the hiccup-y remnants of his crying.

Someone moved in closer and the smell of lavender temporarily caught David's attention. He looked up in surprise. It was Blaine's grandmother.

Her mouth was set in a thin line in a pale face, but her eyes were soft; sad.

Trip finally turned his face out from Dave's chest and looked up at Helen with guarded confusion. He sniffled and wiped the back of an arm over his eyes, "What?"

Her expression remained the same—old and tired and sad. She held out a neatly folded five-dollar bill, "Light some candles."

Trip glared at the money with red, bleary eyes, "I'm not praying for him to be forgiven for anything."

"I'm not asking you to," She reached out and took hold of one of Trip's wrists; folded the money into his palm, "God knows what's in his heart."

Trip let out a humorless laugh, "What? He's suddenly dying and you've come to terms with the fact that he's not some sort of damned, soulless monster? Great timing, Ms. A. Really, just fantastic."

"I never thought he was a monster," She whispered, "Blaine's always been a good boy."

Trip sneered, the money still crumpled loosely in his fist, "So what now? A few extra items on the pros side of the list for St. Peter's book to outweigh him being gay, is that what you're hoping for?"

She shook her head, "I don't know about that. I don't know what to make of any of this. I am giving you money to light candles for my grandson, I didn't say it was to ask for his forgiveness."

Trip's glare melted. His gaze moved between the money closed in his hand and Helen's face, "What am I supposed to pray for then?"

"That's your decision," Helen hesitated for a moment, "I only ask one thing of you."

Trip stared at her, waiting.

"Blow the candles out when you're done."

Trip frowned, "That kind of defeats the purpose of lighting them, doesn't it?"

Her gaze moved toward the bank of candles on the far wall, "When Blaine was a little boy, I used to take him to church with me…he always insisted that blowing the candles out got prayers to God faster. He thought they could travel up to Heaven with the smoke, I think."

Trip nodded, his gaze drifting back down to the money peeking out from his closed fist.

Helen studied them both for another minute before returning quietly to her place in the back of the chapel.

After a moment, Trip wiped his eyes again; swallowed hard. He braced himself on David's shoulder and pushed himself upright.

Dave stood and dug through his pockets. He held out a crumpled dollar to Trip, "That can buy a little one, can't it?"

Trip sniffled again; still trying to pull himself back together, "Why don't you light one?"

David glanced toward the front of the chapel and then looked down again, "I… I don't know what to do…I don't even know if I believe in this stuff."

"Come here," Trip pulled David toward a bank of candles.

David watched quietly as Trip pushed the money into a slotted metal box and pulled a long match from a cup.

Candlelight flickered off their faces as Trip dipped the match down into three tall candles. He offered the stick to Dave, "Pick one."

David looked unsurely between the smaller tea candles before settling on an open one. He lit it and watched the little flame sputter to life.

Trip took the match back from him; buried it low in the sand inside the cup. He sank back down to the ground, this time cross-legged.

David sat down slowly beside him, it'd been years since he'd been to church, but he was fairly sure sitting on the floor was not customary.

Trip's eyes were focused up on the statue beside the candles, but he reached out and pulled one of David's hands into his lap; folded it between both of his, "Do you know who that is?"

David looked up toward the painted ceramic face, "No."

Trip's gaze was tired; far off, "Me neither."

David looked between the statue and Trip's face, "…Now what?"

Trip bowed his head; closed his eyes, "I don't know."

They didn't say anything else to each other.

David felt his thoughts blurring and smudging at the edges as he stared at the hazy glow of too many candles above them and wondered how many of them had actually served their purpose.

When he felt eyes on him, he looked away from the candles, but it was not the quick looks from the people kneeling in the pews that had caught his attention; made that funny, ticklish feeling go up the back of his neck. It was the boy in the back; his face pale and vacant; his gaze so piercing David was sure he was looking in at his soul; inspecting the black marks.

"Kurt's here," He whispered quietly into Trip's ear.

Trip remained still for another minute before releasing David's hand. He stared up at the candles for a moment, crossed himself, and wiped the heel of his hand over his already dry eyes.

Kurt didn't move; didn't blink.

"Come on," Trip murmured. He pushed himself to his feet and pulled David up with him. He strode purposefully toward Kurt.

David approached a little more cautiously.

Kurt met Trip's eyes, "Sometimes… sometimes I wish I believed in a God."

Trip shook his head, "It doesn't make it any easier."

Kurt looked toward the front of the chapel; his eyes drifting over the candles, "It gives you someone to blame when things don't go the way you want them to."

Trip was quiet for a moment. He turned back to the bank of candles, he found the one David had lit and returned to the back of the chapel, the little candle cupped carefully in his palms.

The flame danced and sputtered as Trip moved, he held it up closer to Kurt, "Blow it out."

The light of it danced yellow and gold on Kurt's ashy skin. He stared down at the flame for a moment before letting out a soft breath.

The flame sputtered out and a coil of smoke soon stretched out from the blackened wick. It faded and disappeared a few feet above their heads.

They all watched the smoke as it faded, momentarily mesmerized.

David watched the space where it had faded before even reaching the ceiling. He wasn't sure about smoke carrying desperate prayers all the way to heaven, but maybe blowing them out got the prayers to God faster because a dead candle seems a little more urgent than one that's still burning. He wasn't sure if that was true or not. He wasn't even sure a candle did much of anything at all even if there was somebody listening to the prayers murmured over them.

"Blaine says that's how he pictures brain tumors," Kurt's eyes were on the candle, "The way the end of a candle wick looks when it gets big and deformed like that."

The wick had ballooned out into an ugly rounded growth. Kurt reached out and pinched it between his fingers. It crumbled and smudged the pads of his fingers black and gray.

Trip handed the candle off to David, his voice quiet, "Put it back and then get back over here."

David returned the candle to its place with the others. He glanced over the array of flames and hesitated for only a second before digging his hand down into his pocket. He fished out every spare piece of change he had and tucked it into the slotted box before relighting the candle.

When he returned to the back of the church, Kurt looked even more pale—his eyes too big and hands squeezed tight at his sides.

Trip turned Kurt with a gentle hand on his shoulder, "Come on. We're going for a drive."

David hesitated, not sure what to do.

Trip glanced back at him, his expression soft, "You, too."

They ventured out into the parking lot and were greeted with a fresh blanket of snow on the pavement, more falling from the sky as they walked.

Kurt halted abruptly, tipped his head up toward the sky. When a flake fell on his mouth, he licked his lips; let a stuttery, shaky breath out, "It's snowing."

Trip pressed a hand into his back gently, "Come on, my car's right here."

Kurt allowed himself to be arranged in the backseat, his eyes still focused on the sky even through the closed window.

David took the passenger seat. He tried to twist around to look at Kurt.

"Let him be," Trip spoke softly as he climbed into the driver's seat.

David nodded, but he glanced back anyway.

Kurt was stretched out across the seats, one hand tucked under his cheek, his eyes squeezed tightly shut.

Trip backed out of the parking space and started driving. He didn't turn down the road back toward the apartment or toward Lima.

He drove until the cars around them thinned to nothing, until the buildings turned to houses and then the houses turned to trees.

 

"Where are we going?" David murmured, his eyes scanning the side of the road for a sign.

 

"We're driving," Trip spared David a glance, but then his eyes were back on the road again, "Until we can't anymore."

With that, he turned on the stereo, hummed along.

"Isn't this a little morbid of a song selection?" David muttered.

Trip didn't answer. He turned up the volume and sang along; his voice filling their ears; filling the car. He twisted an arm behind him and reached a hand into the backseat.

David glanced back long enough to see Kurt latch onto it. He faced forward again, his eyes on the road and his head filled up with Trip's voice and too many thoughts. He didn't ask Trip where they were going again, he was getting used to feeling lost.

  
_You and me h_ _ave seen everything to see_  


_From Bangkok to Calgary_

_And the soles of your shoes are all worn down_

_The time for sleep is now_

_It's nothing to cry about,_

_Cause we'll hold each other soon_

_In the blackest of rooms_

_If heaven and hell decide that they both are satisfied,_

_Illuminate the no's on their vacancy signs_

_If there's no one beside you_

_When your soul embarks_

_Then I'll follow you into the dark_


	35. Chapter 30, Pt. 2

Kurt was suffocating. Or maybe he was going insane. Or maybe it was both—drowning in his own insanity.

His father was talking in his ear. Murmuring things about his mother and loss and support.

Rachel was on her knees on the floor beside him sobbing. She kept reaching out toward him—her hands hovering over his knees, but then retracting back again. In the end, she melted into Finn's chest and fell apart.

Kurt blinked around at them. It was a strange sight.

Quinn's eyes were dry, but she kept clasping and unclasping a hand over her mouth like maybe she was suffocating, too.

Kurt hadn't ever seen Puck cry, but he was crying now. Big, gulping sobs while he hugged his arms around himself.

Tina, Mike, and Mercedes were standing beside him. Mercedes had her head pressed against Puck's bicep and Tina was sobbing inconsolably into Mike's chest. Mike just looked shell-shocked. Like maybe he'd left the room when Elizabeth and John had delivered the news and only just returned to the mess and didn't know what to do with it.

The Warblers hadn't moved from their chairs. They looked around at one another blankly, helplessly—Kurt had a flash of a memory of that same look on some of their faces when Blaine had stepped forward to perform his solo at graduation. No one stepped forward this time to make it okay.

He thought about reminding them all that Blaine was still alive, but coordinating the thought with his mouth was too confusing,

And suddenly the attention and the touching and the choking, wet, too much crying and too much sound was simply too much everything. Kurt stood, shrugging off his father and his friends as he went, "I need…space. I need space, please…I—"

John and Elizabeth were both still there, both trying to say something to him. He ignored them.

He needed out.

He needed out now.

He was running—running fast and loud down a hallway to he didn't know where.

He ran through the halls and felt a sudden agitation. No one was scolding him and telling him to walk, no one was paying him any mind at all.

This wasn't junior prom.

No one was chasing him.

No one was going to scream after him to stop.

No one was going to help him make this better.

No one would because no one could.

No one could because no one was Blaine.

Kurt slowed to a stop, his chest tight and his throat burning as he tried to catch his breath. He tried to find that quiet place in his head again—the place where he could float through the hours and let the current of the days push him wherever they wanted him. The space where he didn't have to think about feeling cheated out of one final good day, where one-sided conversations and cold hands didn't have to be considered, where there was never any thought about funerals and who would sing and who would speak and plastic folding chairs at the Anderson's while people milled around in black whispering about how—No. He wouldn't think about that.

He walked until he felt the calming chill of his head blurring at the edges, smudging like watercolor until everything bled together in soft shades. He didn't know how he got to the Chapel; didn't know what prompted him to go in, but he did.

Trip and David were huddled together.

Kurt studied them—suddenly fascinated by the way David's shoulder was just the right height for Trip's head to rest against.

David saw him first. He looked sad and guilty and a thousand other things.

Kurt stared at him, wondered if David knew Trip's head and his shoulder were the perfect heights for one another.

And then they were up, walking toward him.

"I wish I believed in a God," He told Trip.

"It doesn't make it any easier," Trip returned softly.

Kurt knew Trip was wrong. It  _would_  help. People who believed in a God could assure themselves that when an eighteen-year-old kid died, there was a bigger meaning behind it. They could look at rainbows and doves and cords that happened to be tangled on the floor in a perfect circle and a thousand other mundane things as signs of their loved one still being with them. Still tapping them on the shoulder and tickling them with little signs and symbols everywhere.

He believed all of those things were benefits of having some mystical deity in the sky, but Kurt only provided Trip with his primary desire for a belief in a higher power, "It gives you someone to blame when things don't go the way you want them to."

Trip's response was to bring him a candle and request he blow it out.

Kurt complied—things were easier that way. Arguments required being engaged and talking more and having feelings and Kurt didn't want any of those things.

But his thinking would not be turned off as he stared at the deadened candle.

* * *

" _I think this is what the thing inside my head looks like," Blaine hunched over a candle at the kitchen table, spun it lazily between his hands._

_Kurt glanced up from his textbook, "Your brain looks like a candle?"_

" _Just the wick," Blaine blew out the flame out, coughing and snuffling a little when a cloud of smoke met his nose._

_Kurt pried the candle out of Blaine's hands and peaked inside. The wick of the candle was twisted into a knotty looking growth at the top, "This looks disgusting, but I doubt that's what a tumor looks like."_

_Blaine tried to make a grab for the candle. He pouted when Kurt easily lifted it out of his reach, "That is totally what it would look like if we could see it."_

_Kurt lowered the candle back to the tabletop and rolled his eyes, "You could Google pictures of brain tumors, and I'm pretty sure that whatever you would find would look nothing like that."_

_Blaine leaned in close to Kurt to study the wick again, his ear grazed Kurt's cheek as he shook his head, "I don't need Google. I have this candle. Come on, you totally think that's what it looks like."_

_Kurt snorted, bumped his shoulder lightly against Blaine's, "Well then it would appear our Autumn Nights candle has cancer. How unfortunate."_

_Blaine reached into the jar and squeezed the wick. When he pulled his hand away, the wick was straight and neat again. He grinned at Kurt and showed off his smudged fingers, "Cancer cured. Simple as that."_

" _You're a miracle worker, Dr. Anderson," Kurt returned his smile, this time touching his socked toes to Blaine's bare ankle underneath the table. Little touches were important—little bumps and kisses and cuddles were an essential part of them being KurtandBlaine. It had been that way since they were only friends._

_Blaine reached out and grabbed hold of Kurt's wrists, his thumbs sweeping over the soft skin in little arcs, "You can be, too."_

" _Yeah?" Kurt allowed Blaine to manipulate his hands until they were pressed to either side of his head._

" _Yeah," Blaine pressed his hands over Kurt's, tangled their feet between their chairs, "On the count of three, push. Same principle as the candle, we'll just make the cancer disintegrate. After we've cured me, we can go find someone to sell the idea to, deal?"_

_Kurt fanned his fingers across Blaine's head, scooted in a little closer, "Deal."_

" _Alright, count of three," Blaine sat up a little straighter, his fingers still tracing patterns on the backs of Kurt's knuckles, "one, two—"_

_Kurt pressed his hands in gently, leaned forward, and touched a kiss to Blaine's mouth._

_When he pulled away, Blaine's cheeks were flushed pink and a smile was already pulling at his mouth, "Mmm, I think you missed a spot."_

_Kurt laughed, "Show me where."_

_Blaine pointed to his forehead, "Right…right there, I think."_

_Kurt kissed the spot._

" _And here, definitely here." Blaine pointed to a place just behind his right ear._

_Kurt kissed it, pausing to give the shell of Blaine's ear a gentle nip._

_Blaine sighed, "Maybe one more on the mouth just to be sure you got it all."_

_Kurt reached up a hand to Blaine's chin, pressed another kiss to his mouth._

_Blaine sat back in his chair with a blissful smile. He tangled their feet together between them on the floor, "All better."_

" _There's just one little problem," Kurt lifted a hand to show off the black smudges transferred from Blaine's fingers, "You gave me the candle cancer."_

_Blaine sat up straighter, took Kurt's hand between both of his. He rubbed his fingers across the black mark, "I can fix that."_

" _Work quick, doctor, I think it's spreading." Kurt threw his other hand across his forehead in mock distress._

_Blaine lifted Kurt's hand to his mouth, pressed a wet kiss to the spot. When he pulled away, Kurt's hand was clean again. He smiled, "See? Fixed."_

" _You just ingested candle cancer," Kurt sighed, "You just re-infected yourself."_

" _It was worth it," Blaine turned Kurt's hand over in his, pressed a kiss to the pad of his thumb, "And you can always fix me again."_

* * *

He tried to shake the memory from his head, but it stuck and seeped deeper into his head; twisted something in his chest. He looked at Trip, "I need to go."

"Okay, we'll go then," Trip nodded, but he wasn't moving fast enough.

"Trip," Kurt fisted his hands until his nails bit into his palms, "Now. I need to get out of here right  _now_."

And just like that they were in the car, the vinyl of the seatbelt pressed into Kurt's cheek and the metal of the buckle icy cold against his neck.

Trip turned on the music loud and twisted an arm behind him to reach a hand into the backseat, palm up and open. Kurt didn't contemplate the gesture. He latched his fingers around Trip's and held on tight.

His fingers went numb and time stopped making sense.

They drove until the angry yellow light above the gas meter told them they'd be stranded if they went any further. Somewhere during the drive—Kurt didn't know when or where—they'd pulled over so David could drive and Trip had climbed in the backseat; shoving at Kurt until his head was cradled in his lap. Kurt didn't snap at him when he smoothed his fingers through his hair; he didn't hear the words to the endless string of songs bubbling out of Trip's mouth. He found Trip's free hand again and squeezed it hard; focused on Trip's hand pressing back against his with equally painful pressure. He was dimly aware of the car coming to a stop; a quiet dialogue back and forth between David and Trip.

"—I'm not making him go back there—"

"—Car's there; don't have a way to get a hold of his dad—"

"—Got Hudson's number."

"Kurt," Trip was prying his hand free from Kurt's; pushing at him to sit up, "Come on, buddy, help me out here; I can't carry you in."

Kurt sat up; his head feeling too heavy and his eyes burning. He looked out the window and vaguely registered they weren't at the hospital. They were in front of his and David's apartment building. It was too bright; too white outside, so he turned his gaze back to the floor. A pack of cigarettes peaking out from under the passenger seat caught his eye. He stared at the cardboard; tried to make out the surgeon general's warning printed across the top. Cold air licked at his too hot cheeks when Trip pushed the door open and slid out of the car.

Trip sighed when Kurt didn't move right away, "Listen, if you want to go back to the hospital, we can go there, but we're gonna have to at least move to Dave's car. I'll be lucky to make it out of the parking lot with the fumes left in my gas tank."

Kurt leaned over and closed his hand around the cardboard box. He held it out to Trip.

Trip blinked at it for a moment. He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, "Nah, man, that's okay. I don't need them…we'll throw them in the trash on the way in, yeah?"

Kurt dropped his hand back to his lap. He pushed himself forward until snow creaked beneath his shoes and then his knees seemed to emit the same creaky sound as he pushed himself upright. He was out in the lot; surrounded by frigid air that was painful and comforting all at once. He closed his eyes and breathed in deep until his nose and throat ached with the cold.

David and Trip didn't rush him. They stood and waited in silence, Trip pressed close to Dave's side; stamping his feet occasionally for the added warmth.

When Kurt turned toward the building and started walking, they followed him wordlessly, David only stepping forward to pass his keycard over the sensor when they reached the front doors.

The elevator ride was silent. Kurt stood an inch from the doors the entire ride up. Trip and Dave didn't stand a chance from preventing him from seeing the display outside their door.

It took a moment for Kurt to register what the mess was outside their apartment door. When he did figure it out, he was only more confused.

Flowers. Bouquets, baskets; vines and blooms sculpted into hearts and crosses—they spilled out from the door and blocked the hallway. A clear marker to anyone who attempted to pass that tragedy had struck the Hummel-Karofsky apartment. The heady scent of roses was so strong it hit their noses the second the elevator opened up onto the third floor.

Kurt stared down at them; his eyes drifting from an 'Our Sympathies' banner draped over a particularly ostentatious wreath of pine sprigs and poinsettias to a plate of chocolate chip cookies wrapped in glossy cellophane.

"People have been dropping stuff off for a couple days now… this is the most I've seen out here though," David spoke quietly; looking almost guilty, "I was talking to some of the neighbors when I went to get our mail yesterday. I guess Mrs. Shepherd from 3K found out, and the news sort of spread through the building...I don't know if you've, um, if you've seen them, but we have more inside."

Kurt didn't look up from the display, "Do you have your key?"

"Oh, um, yeah," David stepped gingerly over the cookies and a few of the bouquet and leaned over awkwardly to push the door open. He half-hopped, half-tripped into the apartment. He looked out at Trip and Kurt, "We can deal with all of it later, if—"

Kurt leaned over and picked up the thing that had caught his attention first. A dozen pink roses packed tight in a glass vase. The blooms were lush and bright amidst the more subdued whites and reds and the occasional tasteful arrangement of lilies. He stepped nimbly through the other arrangements and into the apartment. The other bouquets David had mentioned sat awkwardly in the middle of the family room floor; a garden of blooms in lonely glass containers. Kurt sat down in front of them; his own vase cradled between his crossed legs.

Trip came in after him, the wreath slung over his shoulder and a vase of lilies in each hand. He settled it all down beside Kurt before going back to retrieve more.

David came next, the plate of cookies in one hand and a pot of carnations in the other, "I had just gotten back form Lima the first time some of them showed up, so I just put them down in here on my way out the door… once more started coming, I didn't know where you'd want them, and I didn't want to bug you about it, so I just—"

"They're fine here." Kurt traced his fingers over a petal. His cold fingers looked too wind chapped and red beside the delicate pink.

Trip and David made trip after trip from the hall to the family room. By the time they closed the door and joined Kurt on the floor, the apartment was nearly claustrophobic with the cloying scent of cut flowers.

Kurt looked over the masses of flowers, "Why are they all here?"

"I don't think there's many people around who can claim to know Blaine without knowing you, too," Trip pulled a card from one of the arrangements, "Do you know a Will Schuster and Emma Pillsbury?"

"They're teachers at our high school," David filled when Kurt's response was only to pull another card from the tangle of flowers, "They probably met Blaine at glee club stuff."

Kurt pulled a third card out of a bouquet; a fourth; a fifth.

"Kurt?" David spoke tentatively as he watched Kurt slide his finger down the seam of another envelope and shake out the card inside.

"They all think he's dead." Kurt didn't look up from the card in his hands. He read the message out loud; his voice flat, "Thinking of you during this difficult time."

Trip and David exchanged a look, but before either one could speak, Kurt had gathered up the stack of cards accumulating at his side.

"'My deepest sympathies'; 'May your heart and soul find peace and comfort'; 'Our hearts go out to you in your time of sorrow'," He flicked each one to the floor with an easy snap of his wrist as he finished reading them.

David reached out to touch Kurt's knee, "Kurt, they're trying to say they know you're going through a hard time, it doesn't mean they think he's—"

"'Our deepest condolences go out to you during your time of grieving'; 'Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, but love leaves a memory no one can steal'; 'Sorry for your loss'," Kurt's eyes burned with tears again as he dropped the last of the cards beside him. Anger boiled in his blood; made his skin feel like it didn't fit right; it itched and he had the insatiable urge to scratch it raw, "I don't know about you, but that little rhyme made me feel much better."

David nodded slowly, "Kurt, Blaine's not—"

"Don't," Kurt flinched; wrapped his fingers around the neck of the vase still in his lap, "Please, don't…don't say his name. I don't—"

"Okay." David nodded, his grip on Kurt's knee tightening briefly before letting go.

They sat in silence; the heady scent of flowers making them all dizzy.

Kurt traced his fingers over the rim of the vase, "Most hospice services take flower donations from people who don't want to keep them."

"Is that what you want to do with these?" Trip pulled a lily from a display; stroked a thumb over the purple vein of color down the center of a petal.

Kurt slid his hand up from the vase to the flowers; felt his skin snag on a thorn, "…no."

"What do you want to do then?"

Kurt slid his hand up further; rubbed his fingers over the top of the biggest bloom. He slid a finger down between the folds of pink and plucked a petal free. He pressed it between his thumb and index finger, the perfume emanating off of it even stronger when it bruised beneath the press of his hand. He dropped it the ground before pulling another. When he finished with one flower, he moved on to the next; a chant forming with each petal that fell.  _He'll wake up, he won't, he'll wake up, he won't, he'll wake up, he won't…_

When he groped for another flower and found the vase filled with only naked stems, he wasted no time contemplating the pink shreds of tattered roses littering his lap. He shoved the vase aside and pulled another one into his lap.  _It's a nightmare, it's real, it's a nightmare, it's real…_

He worked in silence; systematically plucking petals from daisies; beheading carnations; tearing tangles of greenery from wire frames. He heard the sigh of the couch cushions when David sat down; registered Trip's legs disappearing toward his bedroom and returning a moment later, but he ignored them both. He needed to destroy the flowers. One by one, he deconstructed each and every floral creation.

When the only thing left was empty vases, he looked around at the aftermath of his work. The floor was covered in a confetti of bleeding, broken petals and the perfume of their deaths saturated the air.

Kurt sat quietly; a picture of perfect posture amidst the emptied vases and mangled flowers. His voice sounded small in his ears; as wrecked as the roses, "I don't know what to do now."

He registered something drop down into his lap and he reached out to touch it instinctively. It was Blaine's journal.

Trip was crouched low beside him. His gaze flickered to David on the couch, "Get out."

"What?" David looked at him in mild disbelief.

"You heard me," Trip was calm, his voice flat.

"Why?" David frowned at him, "Where am I supposed to be going, we're—"

"I said get the fuck out!" Trip shouted.

David jumped at the sudden ferocity and tried to comply, but he fumbled awkwardly and ended up tripping over a vase that went skittering across the floor.

Trip startled at the noise and then let out an exasperated sigh.

David glanced at the vase as though he was contemplating putting it back, but he seemed to think better of it. He glanced at Kurt again before moving toward the door.

"Wait in the hall, I'll be out in a second," Trip's tone was gentle again, but he waved an impatient hand at the now opened front door.

David slid out quietly, but then looked back again, "Do I need my keys?"

"No."

When the door finally clicked shut, Trip shook his head, "He can be so dense."

Kurt watched as Trip pushed himself back upright, "Where are we going?"

" _We_  are not going anywhere. You're staying here," Trip was at the stereo. He flipped through a stack of CDs with quick fingers and placed one in the player before turning back to face Kurt, "I'll take David for a walk down the halls or something. You have twenty minutes to do whatever you need to do."

"Trip, I don't understand; I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing," Kurt looked between the worn, leather journal in his lap and Trip's face.

"It's not what you're supposed to do, it's what you need to do," With that, Trip pushed play on the stereo and moved toward the front door. He glanced back at Kurt, "Twenty minutes."

Kurt stared helplessly at the door, but when it was obvious Trip wasn't coming back, he looked around the empty apartment feeling suddenly anxious. He was alone. He was alone and he didn't like it. He considered calling Trip and telling him to come back, but when he pulled his phone from his pocket, he knew he wasn't going to do it. He stared down at the screen of his cell—his background was a picture of Blaine from a day back in October when they'd sat out in that stupid leaf pile one final time before turning it into a bonfire—his cheeks were pink and his smile was painfully happy. Kurt pocketed his phone again and turned his attention to the journal.

He opened it with shaky fingers and a slow nausea boiling in the pit of his stomach. His hands moved automatically; flipping through the pages while his eyes scanned the entries. Most of the ones at the beginning were short. Quick lines to note what had happened under a hastily marked date in blue pen.

' _Got a solo today for the Warblers! First one!'_

' _Failed a Calc midterm. Need to get a tutor.'_

' _A on Calc Final! Thank God for Trent'_

' _Mom and Dad coming for dinner tomorrow'_

' _Dad didn't come last night. Hung up with work stuff. Not surprised. Mom and I went to an Italian place nearby.'_

The entries went on and on like that, most crammed seven or eight to a page. Kurt paused when he reached a familiar date where there was a longer block of text scribbled underneath.

_Weird day. A guy came to spy on the Warblers. His name's Kurt. We had coffee. He's getting bullied at his school…I don't know what to do. Gave him my number and I'm hoping for the best…I think I'm going to text him. Make sure he's doing okay._

_Tried 'Teenage Dream' today in front of a crowd—everyone seemed to like it. Kurt liked it. Maybe we'll do it for Sectionals?_

Kurt smiled a little and paged farther forward.

_Kurt transferred today. He's having a hard time, I think. He looks lonely…might go talk to one of the guidance counselors to see if they can flip French with my study period so I can take him for coffee in the mornings. Might cheer him up? He's got a nice smile. I wish I could see it more._

_Crashed my car into a fire hydrant yesterday. Need to call Dad and tell him. Should be interesting._

Kurt frowned. He didn't remember Blaine ever mentioning the run in with the fire hydrant, but he most definitely remembered those morning coffee runs that started when Blaine's Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings suddenly opened up about a week after his transfer. He swallowed down a sudden lump in his throat and kept going. The entries were more of the same—a little longer than they used to be, usually at least four or five sentences—and filled with his name.

'… _Kurt and I went to see The Sound of Music…'_

'… _went shopping with Kurt and got…'_

' _Grabbed dinner with Kurt and one of his friends…'_

'… _football game at Kurt's old school last night and…'_

Kurt paused on an entry about a trip to the bookstore they'd taken some time in January of their junior year. It had been a silly, mindless trip, but Blaine had written a short paragraph about the experience anyway. Kurt had a vague memory of he and Blaine cuddling together on the couch for the first time, a murmured thought about how good it was to not be lonely anymore. He felt a smile pull at his mouth at the mental picture of Blaine sitting on his bed back at Dalton with the journal on the knees. He probably chewed on the end of his pen while he thought about what to note about his day before scribbling down the quick paragraphs.

Kurt lifted the notebook closer to his face and inhaled. Maybe he was imagining it, but he could swear the pages held the faint smell of Blaine's cologne. He lowered it back to his lap and flipped past the entries a little faster. There was a date he was watching for; a particular thing he needed to see.

_I don't know how this happened. I don't know how it didn't happen sooner._

_I'm completely head over heels crazy about Kurt._

_I don't even know how I looked at him before today without feeling like my heart was going to explode. Is that normal? Liking someone so much that it physically hurts? I had the chance to have him a few weeks ago, and I told him I just wanted to be friends, so now he's probably moved on and is over it or whatever and, I mean, he's gorgeous. He could have anyone. I don't think he knows that, though. I shouldn't be happy about that. I want him to know how beautiful he is, I really do….I just really, really want for him to care because it's me versus someone else saying it, is that bad? I should probably just be wishing he's happy no matter what with whoever he wants, and I do sort of want that. That sounds bad. I do want that, forget the 'sort of ' part. I want him to be happy and in love and for someone to take care of him the way he deserves to be taken care of…. I'd just really like to be the person that makes all of those things happen for him, and I might even get a little conniving if anyone stands in my way. Again, bad. Really, really, awful bad. I think I'm supposed to be feeling a little more selfless right now… I want to do something for him. I want to make him smile. I want to go find him and tell him how I feel. I want to hold his hand and stare at him for hours and kiss him. Can I do that? Is that a selfish thing to want? If it's not what he wants, I'd be okay to just pine over him for forever… right? Hopefully. I'd rather find out he's at least willing to give me a chance… I'm going to talk to Wes about it. I just re-read this. I'm not making any sense. Yikes._

Kurt's mouth twitched into a smile as he flipped through the next few pages.

They weren't diary entries…they were practice speeches. Kurt recognized the message behind the words as Blaine's little monologue from that day in the Senior Commons. Some of the speeches were beautiful, but most of them were giggle worthy. Lines like ' _you make my heart sing'_  and ' _when two people come together…_ ' and ' _soul mates_ ' (that one was hastily crossed out with ' _too soon. Get a hold of yourself'_  scribbled next to it). He felt a sharp stab in his chest when he realized Blaine's actual words never showed up in the journal. Maybe he'd written out the speech and torn it from the journal to carry around in his pocket so he could practice, or maybe he'd written it in a different notebook entirely…or maybe he'd made it up on the spot. Kurt closed his eyes for a moment before pushing on to the next entry.

_March 15, 2011_

_I kissed him. He kissed me back._

_I'm not even sure what else to say—I thought I'd fill pages talking about this—I've got entire novels of thoughts running through my head, but, I don't know how to put it down on paper—I wish I could store things in here other than just words. What he tastes like, what he smells like; the color of his eyes, what it feels like when he smiles…I wish I could save him in here forever so I could keep looking again and again and feeling all of this again and again…. But then again, maybe I can—not save him in here—but I can have this everyday. Have_ _**him** _ _everyday. I didn't know I could feel like this—he makes my whole world shine brighter and I'd do anything to give him even a fraction of the happiness he gives me. I love him. I can't tell him that yet—I just kissed him this afternoon, after all. Wait, I want to see it again._

_**I kissed him** _ _._

_I kissed Kurt Hummel._

_Kurt Hummel kissed me._

_Kurt and I kissed!_

_I forgot what I was even writing about…oh, right, I can't say that I love him already, but I can show him, right? The more I try and write about this, the harder it gets to stay focused—it makes me feel too alive, too full of energy—like I can't just sit here and write, I need to_ _**do** _ _something, though I'm not entirely sure what to do because Kurt's back in Lima until morning—I'd text him but it's three in the morning and I'm not sure he'd appreciate it… I should probably be asleep, too, but all I can do is lie here and think about today, about him… I really should try for sleep. I thought writing some of this down might help me get some of the adrenaline out of my system, but it's just making me more excited and making me miss Kurt who I saw like nine hours ago, so you'd think I could manage myself for under a day, but I can't, I'm counting down the hours until seven thirty when I can see him again tomorrow, well, it's three in the morning, so today I guess. Seriously, I need to stop writing this and try to go to bed._

_I kissed Kurt Hummel!_

For a moment Kurt forgot where he was and he smiled at the memory. He'd done it, too—laid awake all night because he didn't ever want that perfect day to end, counted the hours until he'd be back at school with Blaine from the minute he'd pulled out of the Dalton parking lot. And Blaine had loved him from that very first day…. He brushed his fingers over the words and felt the indentation of the penned letters beneath his fingers. He pushed forward slowly through the entries. The day Blaine actually said I love you was a shockingly short entry.

There was a Lima Bean receipt pressed between the pages with the date at the top.

_I know I've been planning on making some big Grand Gesture when I finally decided to tell him, and I still think flowers would have been nice, but I just couldn't_ _**not** _ _say it today. He's so smart and strong and just…so completely Kurt, and all of the sudden I just knew it didn't matter if there were flowers or serenades or hot air balloons or stars or anything else. It was Kurt, and he just needed to know, and I needed to say it. We were out to coffee and he was telling me about New York, and I just looked at him and said it and, for me, it felt just as perfect as if I had done a bunch of showy stuff to go along with it. Maybe that's how love really is though…the thing that makes even the most normal moments unbelievably beautiful. Or maybe that's just a quality unique to Kurt. I'm happy either way._

_He loves me, too. I don't think I need anything else for the rest of life except to know that._

Kurt saw a wet spot hit the page. It made a letter 'e' blur and expand. He lifted a hand quickly to his face and scrubbed away the tears before they could ruin any of the other letters. He moved through the pages a little faster. The entries turned a little shorter again, but still all at least a paragraph and never without his name included in them somewhere.

He felt a sick churning in his stomach as Blaine's handwriting suddenly seemed to turn slightly sloppier somewhere in April of their senior year. There was no mention in the entries about headaches or a tremor in his hand or sudden long bouts of sleepiness. The only whisper of a clue hung in an entry the day after Blaine's physics final.

_I failed my physics final…I'm irritated but more than anything I'm sort of freaked out. I knew that stuff and all of the sudden I just didn't. It was like someone just wiped that spot in my head clean. I haven't told anyone yet. My parents are going to be furious. I'm going to tell Kurt first. He always knows what to say to make things feel okay. Back to studying even harder for my other finals, I guess._

There were a few entries from After, but for some reason Kurt couldn't read them. Blaine's innermost feelings about being sick seemed too personal to read even if Blaine had given Kurt the diary. He flipped through the entries without really seeing them until he spied a date from only a few weeks ago. He didn't want to read what was there. He really, really, really didn't want to…. but something drew him in; told him to just look once.

He found the first entry after the set of blank pages and let out a slow breath. It was a list of songs. Kurt would have pawned it off as a set list idea meant for Trip, but these songs all held a theme… He flipped forward another page and another and another.

Music gave way to senseless words.

Senseless words gave way to lists.

Lists gave way to plans and requests.

_I want to be cremated not buried. I know it sounds stupid, but the idea of being buried makes me claustrophobic. Being burned up really isn't that appealing either, but I'd prefer that to a traditional burial. I don't mind if you still want to do the empty casket at the funeral if it's somehow helpful for you, but please don't think I expect it. Seems a little silly to me to spend thousands of dollars on an empty box…_

_If it's really important to Grandma, I don't care if it's in a Catholic church as long as they don't imply anything about me burning in hell for being gay or something. If for some reason you'd prefer to have a service through some other religious body, I don't mind. I trust your judgment._

_Please don't hold onto my clothes forever. It's depressing and it won't change anything. Keep them for a while if you need to, but then please donate them. I can't come up with anything in particular you'd want to save, but if there's something that comes immediately to mind that you'd like to keep, that's okay, but if there's nothing you want, that's okay, too. Carry me in your heart the same way I'll carry you in mine. Please do offer my red Dalton sweatshirt to Kurt, though. Not the newer one. The one with the hole in the cuff of the sleeve and the paint stain on the collar._

Kurt felt something tightening in his chest. Winding up and pulling tighter and tighter as he flipped through the pages. He held his breath when he hit a set of letters.

_Hi Mom, please don't find a way to blame this on yourself…_

_Listen Dad, there's a lot of things I never said…,_

_Rachel, do you remember what you said to me at Santana's eighteenth birthday party?…_

_Dear Grandma, I know we haven't always seen eye to eye…_

_Thank you Wes…_

_Before you can shred this to pieces, hear me out, Trip…_

Kurt didn't read them. He flipped through the pages quickly, only skimming the names at the tops of the pages and the first lines. When he hit blank paper again, he went back and double checked to make sure he hadn't missed something. He licked his thumb and index finger and made sure none of the pages were sticking together, he re-read the first line of each letter, he flipped through the short section of blank pages at the end to make sure there wasn't one more hidden letter in there somewhere, but the rest of the pages were unmarked.

Kurt felt the muscles in his chest constricting even tighter; the air leaving his lungs too fast and too shallow like someone had kicked him in the stomach.

There was no letter for him.

No last message.

Nothing.

The floor tilted under him as Kurt stared down at the blank pages. This would be his life, too. A life that held no traces of honey eyes and those familiar arms wrapped around him; only empty hands and whispered secrets that fell unheard on a cold pillow. White blank pages where Blaine should be.

It was unfair.

It was so  _fucking_  unfair.

Hadn't Kurt been strong for all of those years? Hadn't he been patient and lonely while everyone else moved around him in their tangos of relationships and friends and love triangles while he sat quietly by himself in the back of the choir room? He had been ready to give up the belief he'd ever find someone; he'd been prepared to resign himself to a life that didn't quite meet expectations just in time for someone to grab his hand and pull him down a varnish-scented hallway without a care in the world, and, just like that, every careful wall had come crumbling down around his heart without a second thought.

For a minute—a fleeting, blinding, white-hot pause—Kurt hated Blaine. Really, truly hated him. He hated him for making him fall in love. He hated him for always saying the right thing even when it was the wrong thing. He hated that the he was his first thought in the morning and the last thing he thought about at night. He hated him for having the power to shatter his entire life. He hated him because there was no way he could ever stop loving him no matter how bad it hurt.

Something hot and angry boiled in his chest and filled up his head and tore apart his heart, and all he could hold onto was how fucking unfair it was. He looked around the room wildly and wished someone else were there. On an impulse of fury, he threw the journal across the room, but he felt no satisfaction at seeing it hit the wall and crumple to the floor with the pages fanned open across the ground.

It didn't matter that he couldn't look at the words anymore; they were tattooed to his brain like everything else about Blaine was. The past two years played on fast-forward through his head over and over and it was hurting worse and worse and worse—

He didn't know where the sound was coming from at first. A loud, almost spectral keening noise like he had never heard. But it was not the primitiveness of such a noise or even the volume that startled Kurt the most; it was the brokenness of it; a sound like someone was being burned alive and shredded into pieces. He didn't realize the sound was coming from his own mouth until he could feel it burning in his chest, straining his lungs and clawing his throat raw. The scream consumed his entire mind; his entire body.

He didn't know when he stood up. He didn't know when he started throwing the vases or when he cut his hand or when Trip and David had come back in the apartment, but suddenly there were hands around his wrists.

He met Trip's eyes and gave him his fiercest glare. He knew he looked crazy. He was still screaming and crying and bleeding, but he didn't care. Trip didn't look particularly phased either, and, for some reason, that was even more infuriating.

"I HATE YOU! I FUCKING HATE YOU!" Kurt screamed; fought hard against Trip's grip around his wrists, "YOU'RE NOT EVEN SUPPOSED TO BE HERE, YOU DIDN'T DESERVE BLAINE. WHY DID YOU STAY? WHY DIDN'T YOU JUST FUCKING GO BACK WHERE YOU CAME FROM? WE WERE OKAY. EVERYTHING WAS OKAY BEFORE."

The words made no sense and they were unfair and they weren't true, but Kurt didn't care. He wanted someone he could berate. He needed his words to hurt someone; he wanted just a fraction of the pain he felt, just one shard of glass mangling his heart, to be expelled with his voice and into someone else. He couldn't hurt like this alone.

He got one wrist free and curled his hand into a fist. He swung hard and Trip made no effort to duck out of the way. With no real sense of aim, Kurt's hand connected somewhere between Trip's jaw and ear. Trip flinched but regained control of both of Kurt's arms, "Fuck, you hit hard. Shh, okay, okay. Come on, take a breath."

The smallest of fears crept into Kurt's brain that he may never stop screaming; that he would be stranded letting the broken notes of his soul pour out of his mouth for forever, but then, all at once, he was collapsing, his fingers biting into Trip's back and his forehead pressed half against the hot, damp skin of Trip's neck and the cotton of his t-shirt. No sooner had the scream finished than the tears began. They were almost worse. They took up all his breath and filled his lungs with a burning, wet ache and they made his knees turn boneless.

Trip held him up long enough to get him to the couch. He didn't seem to be bothered by Kurt's nails digging into his back. He held on tight and murmured something quietly to David about bandages and a broom and 'turn down the music a little, would you?'

Somehow, the keening died down to hiccupping, gasping sobs and then finally to silent, shivering tears. Kurt's head was still buried in Trip's shoulder; a blanket had been draped over his legs where they were tucked up beside him on the couch. David was kneeling on the floor, putting towels down over puddles of water.

Multicolored shards of glass and broken flower stems littered the floor and there were already three towels spread out over puddles of water; one of the side tables was overturned. Kurt's eyes moved slowly over the damage he'd done.

"Not bad for twenty minutes work," Trip murmured; one of his hands still smoothing over Kurt's back, "I'm honestly kind of impressed. Imagine what you could have done with half an hour."

Kurt hiccupped and risked a glance up at Trip. A red bruise was forming near his jaw. It wasn't big, but the mark was dark and angry.

"You hit harder than I thought you would," Trip smiled a little.

"I'm sorry," Kurt whispered. His throat burned dry and his voice cracked.

"I promised you a free hit," Trip shrugged.

Kurt's gaze went back to David who was now dropping shards of glass into a garbage bag, "I'm—"

"Nothing to be sorry for, Kurt," David offered a smile before turning his attention back to cleaning.

Kurt pushed himself further away from Trip, "I…I c-can help. You sh-shouldn't have t-to do—"

"Shut up and stay put," Trip caught a hold of his arm, "Just take a breath, buddy."

Kurt's head throbbed dully. He lifted a hand to his face and could feel the puffiness in his cheeks. He registered dimly that his injured hand had been bandaged. All of his mess—the flowers and the glass and his bloodied palm—it could all be fixed. In an hour everything could be as good as new. He swallowed dryly and looked back at Trip, "It's not fair."

Trip nodded, "It's not."

Kurt rested his elbows on his knees and dropped his head into his hands.

Trip pulled gently at his arm, "Just rest for now. We'll figure out what to do next in a bit."

Kurt allowed himself to be settled down on the couch until his head was on a pillow in Trip's lap and the blanket had been replaced over his body. He stared straight ahead without really seeing, "I'm so tired."

Trip didn't respond. He hummed along to the music still playing and tapped out the rhythm against Kurt's side.

Kurt closed his eyes, but he didn't sleep. He couldn't. He focused on his breathing and the present moment.

Trip smelled like no cologne that Kurt could identify in his fuzzy brain…it was a strange combination of wood smoke and sandalwood. It was a pleasant change from the overpowering smell of flowers that was starting to make Kurt a little nauseous.

He could hear David still cleaning—the quiet clink of glass dropping on glass and the crinkle of plastic moved around the room. After what seemed like forever, Kurt felt the air shift around him as David breezed past. The bag settled down somewhere behind the couch.

The world was nice without sight; easier. Just smells and sounds and touch, unburdened just a little bit without harsh light and movements that demanded tracking.

The sink was running and then the floor was creaking as David returned to the family room. Kurt registered the faint tinkling of ice clinking against glass right above his head.

"He's asleep," Trip murmured.

"It's for you."

There was a momentary silence and the quiet sound of a kiss.

David sat down on the floor. Kurt could sense him close by, "What're we going to do?"

"Right now?" Kurt heard Trip set the glass down on the side table that had apparently been righted again, "I don't know. Let him sleep and we'll figure it out as we go."

"You should put ice on that bruise."

"It's fine."

Silence.

"Do you think Blaine will make it?"

Kurt listened, but all he could hear was the hum of the heater and music. Trip didn't say anything.

David let out a long breath, "Poor Kurt."

"When my whole life got shot to hell, the worst part wasn't feeling like people had turned on me or having people hate me, it was feeling like I didn't have anybody…" Trip's hand pressed a little harder into Kurt's side, "We can't let that happen to him, we can't let him think he's alone. We have to take care of him."

Kurt felt David's hand come up close. It brushed his fingers when he squeezed Trip's knee, "I'll take care of both of you."

There was another pause.

"David?" Trip's voice was quiet; his finger still brushing idly over Kurt's side, "…I love you, too."

Kurt refocused his attention on the music; let his mind drift. He didn't think of Blaine. He thought of his mother—the sight of her smile and the feeling of a shiny black dress she liked to wear for date nights that was slippery in Kurt's fingers when he helped her zip it up and the sound of her laugh he only remembered because of old home movies and the first night home after her funeral when the house had felt wrong and empty and the dizzying smell of her perfume when he buried his face in that special spot on his pillowcase. More than anything he thought about the missing memory of that final moment. The hiccup of nothing between eating dry waffles at the table and her sitting across from him with a mug of tea to watching a casket being lowered into the ground.

Kurt opened his eyes; pushed himself upright.

David looked surprised but then managed a small smile, "Quick nap."

Kurt ignored him. His eyes drifted over the freshly cleaned floor, "I can live without him, you know."

The other two remained silent. Their eyes moving between Kurt's pale face and the floor as though they shouldn't be looking.

Kurt nodded almost imperceptibly; a tear escaping one eye and tracking down his cheek, "I know how this works. You get your heart ripped out, and it hurts so much that it feels like you can't even remember how to breathe and it hurts all the time…but that's not the worst part. The worst part is when it's been a couple weeks and it's not on your mind all the time so you forget sometimes that they're gone…but then you remember—you see something you want to tell them about, or you just want to hold their hand—and then you remember you can't and it's like losing them all over again."

David looked down at his lap, working his jaw to keep the tears at bay. Trip stared hard at Kurt, motionless.

"But then it gets easier," Kurt sniffled; drew his knees into his chest, "y-you still keep having to remember it, but it doesn't hurt quite as m-much as time goes by. It gets w-worse sometimes when you remember…when you remember you won't ever see them again. How big it is for them to be gone; to never be coming back—I've done it before. I know—in my head, I know—I could do it again if I did it before, right? … You think someone's your whole world, but you can still put things back together."

He met Trip's eyes; the tears coming in earnest now, and saw mirrored tears slipping down Trip's face

Yes, Kurt knew what this would be. A world where he moved and breathed and felt and Blaine didn't and wasn't and couldn't. And yet he would be everywhere. The crunch of autumn leaves beneath Kurt's feet; the aroma of coffee and new books; the touch of a wool scarf to his arm. The world was so impossibly full of Blaine—little pieces of him woven in so tightly with everything else. Without him… without him Kurt could only remember shades of gray and his feet that rarely felt the ground below them. Blaine was color and warmth and laughter. Blaine was life. Kurt choked on a sob; shook his head. He turned his face down into his knees; let the tears fall freely; let the possibility; the ugly, ugly potential, wash over him.

But for every new wave that crashed over him and eroded at his nerves and pulled at his heart, he felt a hard resolve forming, too, drying his tears and steadying his trembling shoulders. When the tears had stopped, he let go of his legs; let the tense muscles complain and spasm as he stretched them out and pushed himself to his feet. He met Trip's eyes again; his voice whisper quiet, "I want to go back to the hospital."


	36. Say Hallelujah, Say Goodnight

"When you were…you must have been seven. That was the year you fell off the retaining wall out back and broke your arm. You wanted a pink cast and we made you get green instead," John cleared his throat, "Anyway, you, um, you used to come into the office with me every other Saturday and people… God, people always adored you. One week—you had that green cast—one week you found a vacant cubicle, talked to some of my co-workers and the secretaries, and pretty soon you had a whole work set up—a phone, someone's briefcase, files, a bunch of desk accessories; you even managed to persuade someone to give you their stereo. People couldn't get enough of you—there were people coming over to see you that weren't even from our floor. I went down to see you myself to take you to lunch and…

John paused to laugh quietly to himself, "and you were on the phone with one of the secretaries. I sat down and waited and got to listening to you and realized—" John swallowed; cleared his throat again, "I realized you were mimicking things I'd said over conference calls—you even game me the same 'one minute' hand motion I gave you all the time. When you finally hung up and we went to lunch, I asked you if you wanted to be a businessman someday and you looked at me—you were so excited—and said 'no, Dad, it's acting. I wanna be an actor', and I, um… I told you that wasn't practical. I told you, when you were seven years old, that you weren't being practical."

John let out a bitter sounding laugh and glanced at the bed. He quieted, and slowly, carefully, slipped a hand over Blaine's, he brushed his fingers over the back of his knuckles.

"I know I haven't always done right by you Blaine… even before you came out to us, I…I pushed you. I don't regret that—teaching you to work hard to get what you want, but I know I pushed you toward the things I wanted for you." John swallowed; felt his voice waver.

"You just th-think a lot deeper than I do. You dream a lot bigger, and I'm sorry for ever trying to limit you just because I was so limited." He slid his hand into Blaine's and closed his fingers around it tight, "I…if you'll come out of this; if you'll wake up, I—I'll support you in anything you want to do. If you w-want to be an actor or a singer or a goddamn rodeo clown… if that's what you want, I'll support it b-because," John closed his eyes tight.

"You do well at anything you try to do, so m-maybe, if you could j-just keep trying to win this…Just please wake up… I never told you that I loved you as much as I do…I hope you know that; I hope you know how much I love you, how proud I am of you. I hope you'll give me the chance to tell you."

* * *

Elizabeth hummed quietly and rubbed a slow rhythm up and down Blaine's arm.

"When you were a little boy—seven, if I'm remembering right—you got food poisoning from a cookout they had at your school," She tucked the blankets in more neatly around his side, "We should have been there, your father and I, it was a family function and you told us about it and stuck that flyer to our mirror, but we were both working and—never mind, that's not what I wanted to tell you. I was talking about how you had food poisoning. You got sick in your bed and you came and stood in our doorway and whispered for me as quietly as you could and you were so horribly embarrassed."

She smoothed a wrinkle in his hospital gown that wasn't there; let her hand linger on his arm, "I left you in the bathroom and went in and changed your sheets and opened up your window, and when I went back to get you from the bathroom, you were crying."

She sniffled; pulled her chair in even closer to the edge of the bed, "Y-you thought I was mad at you and that I was just going to leave you standing there in the bathroom all night in your dirty pajamas… I can still see you—you poor little thing, your arm was still in that cast and you were so miserable. And then when I told you I wasn't angry at all and I tried to hug you, you weren't having any of it. Not until you changed clothes."

She smiled a little to herself, "When I brought you back into your room, you were so excited about those silly sheets, but then you started feeling sick again, so I ended up sitting with you in your bed for hours…and sometime around dawn you looked at me and, God I can still see your face, you were so tired but you were still feeling so terrible and you asked if… if you were going to be sick for forever."

Elizabeth smoothed the sheets around Blaine's side before slowly getting to her feet. She leaned over the bed and pressed a kiss to his forehead, "You won't be sick forever, baby, I promise."

* * *

As soon as she was seated, Helen reached out, cupped a hand gently over Blaine's ear and jaw, "You liked that when you were a little boy. You'd grab hold of people's hands and press them against your cheek, and that smile you'd get on your face—no one knew how to resist you. I certainly couldn't, I spoiled you rotten when you'd come to visit."

She sighed, brushed her thumb gently over his cheekbone, "That all changed when you were fourteen, though, didn't it? You were still so young…"

She paused, lowered her hand back to her lap, "It was when your family came to stay at the beach house for a couple weeks during the summer—you spent hours everyday hunched over the tide pools and you had a terrible sunburn on the backs of your shoulders by the third day of the trip. You brought a sand bucket out with you and dragged in all sorts of things—mostly sea glass, you were always so fascinated by that…"

Helen reached into her pocket, pulled out a worn aqua colored piece, smiled a little, "You came in one day—a Wednesday—because it had started to rain. You slid this piece across the kitchen counter to me…and then you told me that you…that you were gay."

She turned the glass over in her hand, smoothed her thumb along the surface, "And you didn't even take a breath before telling me your parents knew. They said they still loved you but you thought your father loved you less and you thought I probably would, too…you didn't give me a chance to respond...you said you thought God still loved you, and then you went right back outside into the rain."

She sniffled, wrapped her fingers tighter around the glass, its soft edged pressing into her palm, "I didn't love you any less, Blaine, I've never loved you any less…I…I can't claim to understand your decisions and I can't condone who you spend your time with…but you are a good boy. A strong boy with a good heart, and no one can fault you for that. If I haven't made that clear to you… then that sin is mine."

* * *

"Hey, Blaine," Wes pulled the chair in a little closer. His mouth twitched into a smile that faded back to a frown. He looked around the hospital room for a moment, rubbed his hands on his knees. He looked back at Blaine.

"You know, you didn't look much different than this when you first came to Dalton," His eyes drifted over the bandages on his head, "Not quite so much gauze, and maybe a little hardier than you are now, but not much—you had stitches in your forehead and your arm in a sling and you sort of limped when you walked…I only really remember most of that from a couple of pictures. Mostly you just looked…determined. Everything you did—from how you ate lunch to how you answered questions in class to how you looked when you first came into the common room and said you wanted to audition for the Warblers—you were so intense, like you were daring anyone to try and pull one over on you."

Wes smiled a little. He reached up and rested his hands on the edge of the bed, "I thought once we let you in and you started getting to know the guys that you'd relax, but you didn't. You kept to yourself and you were so…guarded. We gave you your first solo and—I wonder if you remember this, but—you looked genuinely excited for about five seconds, and then you just looked like the same old serious Blaine again, like you were wary of even your own happiness.

"I don't know what went through your head—I wish I…I mean I hope I can still ask you—but you looked around at all of us and we were still applauding you getting the solo and all of the sudden you just blurted out that you were gay."

Wes turned his gaze up to the heart rate monitor, watched the steady blips of light, "You looked around at all of us like you were waiting for something, and we didn't really know what to say to you...I think it was David, but I don't….I don't really remember who, but one of the guys made a joke that they were glad because they'd been worried about competing with you for women, and we all kind of laughed and just went back to work—but apparently something about that worked for you, because you started to relax. And once you relaxed, you started talking and—as we all know now—once you started talking, you didn't stop."

Wes laughed a little, but without Blaine laughing with him, the sound died out. He cleared his throat.

"That night you came over to my room before bed and—God, I can still see the way you leaned in the doorway so you were off of your left ankle—you looked at me and just said 'Thank you for being so understanding…I'm trying to do well here. I won't disappoint you guys.'"

"I told you that you had nothing to worry about. That you seemed like a good guy and we were happy to have you," Wes swallowed down a sudden lump in his throat. He reached out, squeezed Blaine's arm, "But you still worked your ass off—every single day, you put everything into those performances. No one could ever get upset that you got all of the solos because you worked for every single one of them—there was nothing you did that you didn't put your everything into."

"I think…" Wes closed his eyes, "Please just keep putting your everything into fighting this."

* * *

"I think the worst part of coming in here to talk to you," Rachel stared down at her lap. Her hands were shaking and her voice shook with them, "is…is that it doesn't feel that strange, you've always been such a good listener—"

She swallowed down a sob, rested her hand on the edge of the bed so that her fingers were just brushing the edge of Blaine's hand, "Remember when Finn and I had that huge fight after Tina's pool party last summer? Everyone said it was my fault, even Kurt— they said that I pushed too much, and I made it impossible not to start something and I r-ruined things with my stupid, petty drama... I tried to act like I was fed up with all of you, and I stormed off to the bathroom. I, I didn't think anyone would bother following me, so I let myself cry before I even got the door closed but…but you stuck your foot through before I could shut it, and I felt so stupid."

She looked up at him, the tears flowing again even faster than that day over a year ago in the Cohen-Chang's basement, "I t-tried to m-make up some stupid excuse, but you just put your arms around me and d-didn't even say anything. You j-just hugged me until I st-stopped and then you smiled at me and it was like…it was like everything was okay."

She wrapped his hand between both of hers, "You've always b-been so n-n-nice. You always s-see the best in e-everyone. You're so…you're so sweet and g-good, Blaine. Th-this isn't f-fair, life sh-should be nice to you t-to after how go-oo-d you've b-been to everyone else."

She searched his face, cried harder, "We all j-just want to s-see you s-smile again, Blaine. Please, please wake up. I m-m-miss you already, I j-just want t-t-to see your smile again."

* * *

"I… I don't know what I'm supposed to do in here." Trip sat in the chair beside the bed; he'd pushed it a good foot away. It was safer like that…but he did chance a look at Blaine.

"People don't like me…" Trip shifted in his chair; stared hard at the edge of the bed where the mattress met the metal frame, "…when you met me, I'm not even sure if you liked me all that much…but you stuck around anyway."

Trip paused, hesitated. Afte a moment, he scooted his chair in just a little closer…just close enough to rest his hands on the edge of the bed, but not touching Blaine, no, that… that was dangerous territory.

"Do you remember when we went for that walk when we first met? It must have been… the fourth or fifth day you came over. It was fucking freezing, but you insisted we go on your stupid walk…and you smelled like cologne and bubble gum and you had your hair glued to your damn head with all of that gel and you smiled like an idiot the whole time we were walking and, fuck, I wanted to hate you for being so goddamn ridiculous, and I told you that and…and you looked at me and smiled your stupid smile and said 'but you don't'... and you were right. I didn't…"

He fidgets with the sheets beneath his fingers.

"You know what the difference is between you and me? Even when you have no idea what the fuck you're doing, you do things just because…because they're good and you're good and…

Trip closed his eyes; bit his lip, and finally, finally, he slid his hand into Blaine's and spoke through gritted teeth, "You have to wake up, all right? I—you're my best friend…you… I have stuff I want to tell you, okay? Stuff that I think you'd be proud of me for, but I can't tell you if you don't wake up. I wish there was someone else, I really do, but it has to be you I tell, I need--you're like my--if I I had a brother…never mind, that's stupid... but Kurt, Kurt needs you to wake up and your parents need you to wake up and—"

He swallowed hard before speaking again, voice hoarse, "…I need you to wake up. Just…please, Blaine, please wake up."

* * *

Kurt stroked a hand over the inside of Blaine's wrist, traced the familiar pattern of sun kisses up the underside of his arm—if he followed them right and used a bit of imagination, he'd learned a long time ago that they could form a crude 'K' (they'd traced them once with a Sharpie just to be sure). He closed his eyes, followed the familiar pattern—there's the crook of his elbow, the curve of his wrist, the lifeline on his palm, the scar on his third knuckle, the curve of his fingernails, the callused tip of a ring finger.

He took in a breath, slow and deep and steadying. Over the smell of antiseptic and sickness, the thin, familiar aroma of coffee tickled Kurt's nose. Teased him with memories of long talks at the Lima Bean; the smell of jackets during winter months; the taste of quick kisses goodbye after Friday morning meetings before they had to rush off to their respective schools.

"Do you remember the day after you first kissed me?" Kurt stroked his thumb over the soft skin between Blaine's thumb and index finger; listened to the hitch in his breathing.

"I remember waking up and wondering what I should wear to impress you before I remembered that I had to wear my Dalton uniform… but then I ended up putting all my focus into fixing my hair and making sure my tie was knotted just right and then I got distracted thinking about you, so I was almost late for school…"

Kurt glanced up at Blaine's face. Impassive. Still.

He slid his hand down to Blaine's wrist; pressed his thumb in a little until he felt the quiet beat of his pulse against his fingers, "It wasn't until I got into the parking lot that I realized I hadn't bothered to put cologne on. I was absolutely mortified and there was nothing I could do about it, and you  _know_ how I feel about cologne. It's like forgetting to put your pants on."

Kurt mentally filled in where Blaine's laugh would be. The quiet, quick breath between his teeth as he smiled, gave a small nod, murmured a teasing  _"of course."_

"I was stressing about it the entire time I walked into school and I was trying to figure out what to do while I put my books away and then, all the sudden, there you were… do you remember?"

Silence.

Kurt mentally colored in a soft smile; another half-nod, but sweet eyes urging him to continue anyway; just so he can hear it from Kurt's perspective.

"You slipped your arm under mine while I was putting away a book and put a coffee cup on my locker shelf… you wrapped your arms around me, and it was so incredibly amazing—you were so warm and close and so…so  _you_ , and I didn't even know how much I needed someone to hold me like that before."

The  _beep beep beep_  of the heart monitor let Kurt know that Blaine was at least physically present. His body still warm; his heart still beating, and maybe, just maybe, his ears still open and listening to the world that passed. Listening to Kurt.

"…And for some reason I was scared to touch you back; like if I did, you might change your mind, but you were so warm and wonderful…so I leaned back into you and you tipped your chin down onto my shoulder, and breathed in really deep, and," Kurt let out a strangled giggle that sounded closer to a sob than laughter, "And you said, ' _God, you smell amazing_.' And I don't think I ever told you how important it was—how it made me feel—to know you liked me… just whatever I was or whoever I was, it was…it was exactly what I needed to hear, I guess."

Kurt clenched his teeth; pressed his fingers down a little harder on Blaine's wrist because he wanted to feel his heart beating stronger. Feel life and promises for tomorrow and brown eyes and taste coffee-tinted kisses and hear sweet whispers that everything was going to be okay.

There was something else that needed to be said. Something important that he couldn't quite properly form on his tongue. He closed his eyes and counted his breaths for a moment; focused on rubbing the pad of his thumb over the smooth half moons of Blaine's fingernails. He sucked in another deep breath, opened his eyes again.

"A second never seems that long, but when I was a kid, I was always in a rush… I guess that didn't change much when I got older, but that's not the point.

"I was maybe the most impatient person anyone could ever have the misfortune of having to spend a long car ride with or, God forbid, the couple of hours of a family dinner over the holidays before we got to open Christmas presents. My mom combated the whole thing by making me count. You know, like she'd say, 'Count to five hundred, honey, and then it'll be time or we'll be there or you can get out of your time out'.

"You know how most kids, for some reason we learn how to count seconds by tagging Mississippi on the end? Like one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi—you know the drill—well, I resented it. I'd never been to Mississippi, I didn't know anyone in Mississippi, and I got tongue tied over that second 's' sound. And, being a bit of a narcissist I guess, I decided to say Kurt instead. One Kurt, two Kurt, three Kurt—the only problem was, Kurt doesn't take as long to say as Mississippi, so I was constantly a few fractions of a second ahead of the rest of the world, and I think all that time added up and now here I am, constantly marching to a beat a bit faster than the rest and pissing everyone off for messing with the formation.

"…But you never minded that, did you? You've always said music makes more sense to you than anything else, so maybe that's why, but you caught right up and fell in step with me and I…I'd never had someone who totally got me; who could do what you did in a couple seconds that passed even faster than I could count them. I trusted you. I trusted you when I didn't know how to trust anyone else because… because people don't come like you, Blaine. You're special… different. You were the proof I needed that people could still give a damn; that I could still be worth something to someone.

"I—I can live without you, I can," Kurt choked on a sob, "I just don't want to. I really, r-really d-don't want to. I wish y-you'd prove me wrong again. Prove to me that th-this isn't how it e-ends."

Kurt lifted Blaine's hand to his mouth; pressed a kiss to his knuckles.

"I know you tried and you're still trying. I know, even if there was absolutely nothing left you could do, you would still try to keep fighting this thing. So…so I'm telling you it's okay to stop; I won't be angry…I—" He stopped; took in another breath but the sob still came out with it, "I love you so much. I love you more than I knew I could ever love anyone and I just—I—I w-want you to know I won't be mad, and I'm saying it's okay. You can g-go, I don't want you to, but if you need to…I…I'll try t-to be okay…but, f-first, I-I promised you something—I promised I'd give you…give you a song."

He let himself cry until he could regain a little control of his breathing. When the tears dried on his cheeks and the lump in his throat migrated somewhere deeper into his chest, he slid onto the bed. He didn't quite fit the way he should—his limbs too long, the bed too small, Blaine too still, but he didn't care.

He slid carefully underneath the blanket and made sure to tuck it back in close around Blaine's shoulder before nesting his cheek on the pillow. He stared at the blur of Blaine's ear—all pink curves and shadowed lines. He wanted to be held; he wanted to be soothed and cuddled and loved, but it wasn't his turn. Not right now.

He slid an arm across Blaine's chest, his fingers following the space between his ribs until he found a heartbeat, quick and steady and drumming against his palm through bone and skin and fabric, and with it he found his song. He inhaled, exhaled.

_Yesterday,_ _I woke up_

_With your head on my arm_

_My hand was numb, circulation gone_

_But I dared not move the pretty sleeping one_

_The sun had painted patterns on your face_

_As you breathed Sunday air_

_Rode on to my open arms, I became your pillow_

_You let me smooth your hair_

_I will sing you morning lullabies_

_You are beautiful, and peaceful this way_

_I know you have to close your eyes on everyone,_

_Let me help you,_

_I'll sing you to sleep with morning lullabies_

_Let me lie in the curve of your body tonight_

_And I will hear you tumble into sleep_

_I will watch you heal_

_I will watch you heal with me_

_I will sing you morning lullabies_

_You are beautiful, and peaceful this way_

_I know you have to close your eyes on everyone_

_Let me help you, I'll sing you to sleep_

_With morning lullabies_

_I know you have to close your eyes on everyone_

_Let me help you, I'll sing you to sleep_

_With morning lullabye..bye baby_

_Close your eyes_

_And I will sing you_

_Morning lullabies_

He had planed on letting himself cry again when he finished the song, but no tears would come.

His eyes were dry and his head quiet for the first time in a week. He pressed a kiss to the shell of Blaine's ear, to the line of his jaw, to his cheek, his chin, his nose, his forehead. He lifted himself from the bed slowly, carefully, and found Blaine's hand again.

He touched a kiss to the inside of his palm, closed his fingers around it, "Love you forever."


	37. Chapter 31

The camping trip had been Blaine's idea.

Fresh air! He'd exclaimed.

Mosquitos. Kurt had groaned.

Sharing a sleeping bag. Blaine had smirked.

Sleeping on the cold ground. Kurt had sniffed.

Cute hiking boots. Blaine had tempted.

Mud on everything. Kurt had snapped.

Fine. Blaine had conceded.

Fine? Kurt had narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

Fine. Blaine had shrugged, stared at his shoes.

Fine. Kurt had agreed, still wary of an argument too easily won.

My parents will be out of town for the weekend. Blaine had looked back up.

Oh? Kurt had smirked.

And so the camping trip had been vetoed in favor of a plush weekend at the Anderson's eating leftovers from a catered work party earlier in the week and watching  _Project Runway_  on the too big television in the family room. Or so Kurt had thought.

He bristled once Blaine dragged him out into the backyard, "Blaine, what the hell is this?"

Blaine grinned, rubbed his hands together, "This is compromise."

"This is a tent," Kurt huffed, glaring at the big taupe and green thing now taking up a large section of the Anderson's backyard.

"A tent that is a mere fifteen feet from my house," Blaine bobbed his head up and down, clearly pleased with himself, "You can wash, moisturize, and use the bathroom all in the comforts of a well-equipped home, and sleep out here with me."

"Which part of 'I don't sleep on the ground' did you miss earlier this week?"

"I didn't miss it, I shoved an air mattress in there," Blaine grinned, "Anything else?"

"Blaine," Kurt groaned.

"Kurt," Blaine took a step in closer, his eyes flickered to Kurt's mouth, "I can make it worth your while, I promise."

Kurt folded his arms. Glared.

Blaine's gaze moved back to meet Kurt's, even his damn eyes were smiling, "I'll make you a deal—if after two hours you want to go back in the house, we'll do it. No argument on my side."

Kurt wrinkled his nose, "Not even one of your sad, Bambi-eyed faces?"

Blaine held up both hands in a show of surrender, "Not even a disappointed sigh."

"Fine. Your time starts now." Kurt glanced around the yard, the grass turning blue-green in the gathering dark, "And I am highly prone to mosquito bites. Just an FYI."

"We've got the tiki torch things out, you'll be fine," Blaine clapped his hands together, "Now get naked."

"Excuse you," Kurt huffed, "Just because I agreed to slum it out here with you doesn't mean you don't have to romance me out of my clothes first, Blaine Anderson. We're not cavemen."

Blaine laughed and tugged off his own shirt, "We are, in fact, far from it. Did I forget to mention my parents installed a hot tub under the deck this week?"

Kurt kept his face carefully neutral, but his eyes drifted to the space under the deck where, sure enough, a hot tub was taking up the space where an old patio set used to reside, "Hot tub?"

"Mhm," Blaine was peeling off his pants, his eyes still on Kurt, "And I may or may not have commandeered a bottle of champagne from that party earlier this week and maybe some chocolate covered strawberries, but I could just—"

Kurt peeled off his t-shirt, already moving toward the hot tub, "Is there a reason you're still in your underwear?"

They spent the next hour drinking champagne from plastic wine glasses and feeding each other strawberries.

They learned the neighbors couldn't see the tub unless they actually ventured out into their yard, that champagne, when spilled, does not destroy a hot tub or react in any particular way with chlorine (at least not right away), that Kurt was ticklish in a very specific spot on his neck, that they both got far tipsier naked and surrounded by hot water than they did in any other situation, and tiki torches suck at keeping away mosquitoes.

When the heat proved too much and the bugs too irritating, they dashed back across the yard into the tent, whooping and giggling until they were tangled together inside the tent, all dripping limbs and laughing mouths until wet skin sliding against wet skin turned giggles into gasps and the tangling of hands in hair and legs wrapped up together turned more purposeful.

Kurt was loud, Blaine was louder, neither cared if the neighbors heard.

They lay together in the afterglow; panting and blinking dazedly up at the top of the tent.

Blaine rolled onto his stomach, trailed lazy kisses from Kurt's cheek to his neck to his shoulder; nipped lightly at his collarbone, "You're amazing."

"Tell me something I don't know," Kurt looped an arm up around Blaine's shoulders and pulled him closer until Blaine's head was tucked against his chest, stubble and still wet hair tickling his skin, "You're not so bad yourself."

"Mm," Blaine traced a heart against Kurt's side, "Can we cross tent sex off of our bucket list?"

Kurt giggled, "We don't have a bucket list."

"We should change that," Blaine mumbled, "We could already cross off bed sex, kitchen sex, floor sex, wall sex, back of the car sex—"

Kurt tangled his fingers in Blaine's hair, "and now tent sex. I see your point."

"We'll add more," Blaine traced an eighth note over the top of the heart, "tiny apartment sex, hallway sex, library sex, shower sex—"

"The shower is already crossed off," Kurt pulled at Blaine's hair gently, "I highly doubt you've forgotten that."

"I haven't," Blaine agreed, tipping his head up to look at Kurt, "But we could still go do it again right now and maybe start making subcategories—make sure we each get a turn, ya know?"

Kurt laughed, "How very considerate of you."

"Actually, it's very selfish," Blaine tipped his chin down, kissed Kurt's chest, "So what do you say?"

"I say we wait until morning to cross that off of the list."

Blaine pushed himself up on his elbows to look at Kurt's face, "Does that mean you want to stay in the tent?"

Kurt made a show of sighing and rolling his eyes, "For you, because I'm such a fantastic boyfriend, I suppose I could spend one night in a tent."

Blaine leaned forward, effectively digging his elbows into Kurt's ribs, and pressed a sloppy kiss to his mouth, "I love you."

"And obviously I love you, too," Kurt rolled his eyes again.

They spent the night napping and whispering any secrets that hadn't yet been shared, giggling and teasing and fighting for the driest of the blankets until tickling and jokes were forgotten in favor of kisses and sweaty skin.

By the time the sun rose, the tent was too hot and too damp. Kurt had forgotten this part of camping—the mysterious dampness that soaked into everything, the plastic-y mildew smell that would stick to pillows and blankets and clothes for days.

He sat up, felt the vertebrae in his spine clicking into place, his muscles complaining dully from a night spent on the ground and too much sex (that was a lie, there was no such thing as too much sex). He touched his fingers to his cheek experimentally where his skin was sticky and hot. He'd definitely have a breakout after this.

Blaine was napping, face down in his pillow and one arm still hugged around Kurt's waist. His hair was matted to his forehead, his skin flushed and damp, his mouth open a little. He snuffled; shifted a little closer to Kurt's side, settled back down.

Kurt watched him and wondered how it was possible he loved him even more now than he had yesterday or the day before. He reached out, touched his sticky neck, "I love you so much."

Blaine cracked an eye open, squinted up at him, "Hm?"

"Nothing," Kurt took his hand back, "Just admiring your stuffy nose breathing."

"Mm, too much humidity," Blaine wrapped his arm tighter around Kurt's waist and pulled himself in even closer, kissed Kurt's hip, "G'morning."

"Morning," Kurt eased himself back down onto his back, curled his hands around Blaine's forearm still draped over him.

"Did I wake you up?" Blaine mumbled; yawned.

"No, but the stench of this tent did," Kurt wrinkled his nose but smiled, "It smells absolutely awful."

" _We_  smell absolutely awful," Blaine added with a sleepy smile.

"Speak for yourself," Kurt huffed.

Blaine's smile widened. He pressed a kiss to Kurt's shoulder, "Fine, I smell bad, you smell fantastic—Eau de Tent cologne. We'll bottle it and make a fortune."

"Mildew with a hint of sex?" Kurt laughed quietly. Blaine's lips were chapped against his arm, but the kisses still felt nice.

"And a dash of sweat," Blaine nested his chin on Kurt's shoulder, "And for the female perfume version, we'll add a little chlorine smell."

"We're going to get so rich," Kurt smiled and then added with a groan, "I'm so hungry."

"I want coffee," Blaine moaned, then corrected, " _Iced_  coffee. Or just the ice. I'm so dehydrated, I think I might die."

"Go make us breakfast," Kurt pried Blaine's arm off of him, nudged his ankle with his foot.

"Mm, too lazy," Blaine smiled.

Kurt kicked him a little harder, "You're the host, you have to do it."

"Do not," Blaine pulled the blanket over his head, but then immediately pulled it back down, his nose wrinkled, "Jesus, it really does smell awful in here, and I love you like crazy, but you're contributing to it just as much as I am."

Kurt kicked at Blaine's legs, "Get out of here and make me breakfast, you insufferable asshole, or you won't be allowed close enough to ever smell me again."

Blaine laughed and finally shoved himself upright and crawled toward the opening of the tent, he unzipped it and stuck his head out with a sigh, "Oh my  _God_ , it's like getting to breathe for the first time ever. It's beautiful out today."

Kurt giggled, "All I can see is your very white ass and your terrible shorts tan lines,"

Blaine wiggled his ass a little, "Nice, right?"

"How do you plan on getting inside? Our clothes are still by the hot tub." Kurt propped himself on his elbows.

"The same way you're going to do it if you ever want your breakfast," Blaine shifted up until he was crouched at the opening of the tent, "Run!"

Kurt gasped and then laughed as Blaine suddenly took off across the yard. He lay still for another minute—listening to the faint sounds of Blaine's feet pounding up the steps to the deck, the slamming of the door, someone mowing their lawn somewhere in the neighborhood.

When the draw of a shower and food proved too tantalizing and the smell of the tent too offensive, he carefully wrapped himself in one of the blankets and made his way inside.

He ignored the sounds of Blaine fussing with something in the kitchen in favor of going straight to the bathroom for a shower. He scrubbed himself clean, glad to be rid of too many hours worth of chlorine and sweat dried on sweat and God only knew what else, but also a nagging sort of disappointment. There was something nice about being covered in Blaine—Blaine panting and sweating, Blaine coming, Blaine dragging wet, shaky kisses against his calves, his shoulders, his back. It was strangely filthy and lovely all at once. Still, Kurt scrubbed himself raw before climbing out of the shower and venturing to Blaine's room to dig through his yet-to-be touched overnight bag.

Once dressed, he skipped down the steps, feeling decidedly better, "I'm ready to be wowed with my breakfast, Mr. Anderson."

"You'll be wowed alright," Blaine called back, clearly pleased with himself. At some point, he'd managed to dress himself in a pair of jeans and an undershirt, but he looked otherwise just as disheveled as he had in the tent.

Kurt glanced at the stove (clean, untouched) and then at the counter (again, clean) and finally at the table (…empty). He met Blaine's gaze and frowned, "Care to tell me where my three course meal is?"

Blaine lifted a teal cooler onto the counter, grinned, "Would you be so kind, Mr. Hummel, as to accompany me on a picnic on the green?"

Kurt grinned, looped a hand through Blaine's arm, "I'd be delighted."

They ventured back out to the yard where Blaine spread out a clean blanket for them to sit on before plopping down, his legs curved around the cooler.

Kurt sat down, folded his hands in his lap, "Wow me, Blaine."

Blaine nodded and slid back the lid of the cooler, "First and foremost, I have for our hydration needs, a carton of orange juice."

"Lovely." Kurt took the offered carton and settled it down at his side, "What else?"

"Course one," Blaine reached into the cooler and pulled out a Tupperware, "leftover vegetables from that dinner party complete with three different varieties of dipping sauces."

Kurt snorted, "Okay…"

"Second course," Blaine shoved the Tupperware of veggies off to the side and fished his hands down into the cooler again to pull out another Tupperware, "more dinner party leftovers. These happen to be tragically small cheesecakes."

Kurt giggled, "I like cheesecake, but I have yet to be blown away my your breakfast creating abilities, Blaine."

"I know, I saved the best for last," Blaine reached into the cooler again, this time pulling out a box, "the piece de resistance of the meal: Lucky Charms that may or may not be stale."

Kurt raised an eyebrow, "Well you certainly managed to surprise me."

"I promised I would," Blaine shoved the cooler aside, "Feel free to eat the courses out of order."

Kurt's eyes drifted over their fare, "Do I get a plate or at least a cup for my juice?"

Blaine cringed, "Forgot."

"That's fine," Kurt unscrewed the lid from the orange juice and tipped the carton up to his mouth, "This is perfect."

They ignored the vegetables entirely, fought over who got the last of the lemon cheesecake bites (Blaine licked it, Kurt still ate it), and chased handfuls of stale Lucky Charms with gulps from the orange juice carton.

Kurt lay back on the blanket, smiled up at the sun, feeling decidedly better now that he was clean and full. When he felt a familiar tickle on his face beneath the heat of the sun, "You're staring."

"You don't know that, your eyes are closed." Blaine's voice was soft.

"I can feel you looking at me," Kurt tucked a hand behind his head, "If you make a snotty remark about my hair not being done, I'll dump the rest of the orange juice on your head."

"Your hair looks perfect," Blaine was quiet for a moment, "Kurt?"

"Blaine?" Kurt smiled.

"Do you ever have…have moments where for a few seconds you see your whole life laid out in front of you?"

Kurt finally opened his eyes.

Blaine was watching him intently.

Kurt smiled a little, "I know what I want to happen, is that what you mean?"

Blaine shook his head but then stopped, "I…sort of. I mean like those moments where it's just—maybe I just want it so bad, I convince myself it's like a premonition."

Kurt frowned, "You look terribly upset for someone who wants something so bad he thinks he might be seeing the future."

Blaine's mouth twitched into a smile, "I don't like letting myself want things. I don't like getting overly excited about stuff that…if it doesn't work out, I hate that. I get—"

Kurt reached out and squeezed Blaine's ankle gently, "I know."

Blaine nodded, his eyes moving from Kurt out to the tent.

"So what is this big thing you want, hm?" Kurt brushed his fingers gently along Blaine's leg.

Blaine shook his head.

"Saying it out loud doesn't make it more or less real, Blaine. And you can't tease something like that and then expect me not to harass it out of you." Kurt made to push himself up, but Blaine stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. Kurt watched him. Waited.

"I want…" Blaine was looking at him again, his eyes intense, "I want to eat stale cereal and drink orange juice out of the carton."

Kurt smiled a little, "You could make that happen."

"I want to wake up in dirty sheets and know you're there, too," Blaine still looked anxious.

Kurt's smile widened, "I could make that happen."

Blaine reached out, touched his face, "I want to be able to look at you and see you just like this for forever."

Kurt reached out, cupped his hand over Blaine's, "Blaine, you can have all of those things. I want those things, too, you don't have to worry about me going anywhere."

Blaine was still frowning. His eyes moved down to the emptied cereal box, "Forever's a long time…we're young."

"Hey, look at me," Kurt finally pushed himself upright, squeezed Blaine's hand between both of his, "You're worrying about something that isn't a problem, okay? Remember what we talked about last night?"

Blaine bit his lip, nodded.

Kurt squeezed his hand, pressed it back against his cheek, "You won't disappoint me. You can screw up as many times as you want so long as you'll forgive my shortcomings, too."

Blaine looked at him again, but he said nothing.

"You're right, we're young, we don't know anything about the world," Kurt turned his cheek, pressed a kiss to Blaine's palm and closed his fingers around it, "But I know I love you and I'll keep loving you for as long of forever as we have, okay?"

Blaine blinked back tears, his mouth turned up into a feeble smile, "You know something about the world."

"A few things, actually," Kurt teased.

"How'd I get to be with someone so wise, huh?" Blaine finally relaxed—the tension in his shoulders easing, and his smile moving up toward his eyes.

"Even wise people have a soft spot for a pretty face and a decent singing voice."

"Decent?" Blaine raised an eyebrow, "I'm more than decent."

Kurt shrugged.

Blaine picked up the juice carton and, without so much as a second's hesitation, dumped it over Kurt's head.

Kurt gasped and blinked as juice trickled down his face; drenched his collar.

Blaine stood quickly, grinning, "I know for a fact that the shirt you're wearing is actually mine and you promised to love me forever."

"Forever is going to get a lot shorter if I kill you," Kurt lunged at Blaine's legs, and, in a stroke of luck, caught hold of both and brought Blaine toppling back down to the blanket.

Blaine covered his face with his hands, "You promised to forgive me when I screw up!"

"I didn't say I wouldn't punish you first," Kurt sat down on Blaine's stomach, pried his hands off of his face.

Blaine let out a semi-hysterical giggle, "Please don't hurt me."

Kurt leaned down, suppressed a giggle when Blaine's eyes slammed shut, and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth before rolling off of him.

Blaine lay still, blinking, "That's it? You're not going to dump ranch in my hair? Tickle me to death? Kick me in the shins?"

"Not today," Kurt stretched out on his stomach, pulled at Blaine's arm until he could use it as a pillow, "Today your good deeds outweigh your bad."

They were both quiet for a while, summer sounds of children playing and sprinklers running lulling Kurt into a near sleep.

"Kurt?" Blaine murmured.

"If you're going to complain that your arm is going numb, I don't care," Kurt yawned.

Blaine let out a quiet breathy laugh, "No, I wanted to say thank you."

"For making your arm fall asleep?"

"For camping with me and drinking orange juice out of the carton," Blaine smiled a little, "For loving me for forever. I promise I won't always be as much of an idiot as I am now."

"The day you stop being able to talk me into letting you get away with dumping orange juice on my head and convincing me to eat ten thousand calories worth of cheesecake before ten in the morning is the day I no longer want to be with you."

"You're seriously amazing." Blaine used his arm tucked under Kurt to drag him closer.

"I'm aware," Kurt nested himself in close to Blaine's side, "Now let me sleep. It's hard enough to nap when I'm covered in orange juice without you chatting in my ear."

Blaine sighed, quiet and blissful, "I—"

"Shh, I know," Kurt pressed a hand against Blaine's chest. "Same here."

* * *

Kurt lay stretched out between three chairs in the waiting room, his head nested on his arm, a borrowed hospital blanket draped over his body.

At the doorway, people were arguing in hushed whispers.

"He can stay here, really, he's no trouble and the staff doesn't mind—"

"—Been nowhere but that chair next to his bed and this waiting room for two days, he needs to be home. He needs to actually rest—"

"—Apartment's closer. If something happens and he can't be here, it's going to crush him."

"—My son, I need to watch after him right now, if we bring him back to the house, no matter what happens, what's done is done whether he gets to the hospital in two hours or ten minutes."

"—Really, just let him stay, we don't mind, Blaine would like—"

"Blaine would like him to be healthy and  _this_  is not healthy for him."

There was a pause as everyone turned to look at him.

Kurt stared back.

"What do you want to do, Kurt?" Trip spoke up. He ignored the glare from Burt.

Kurt closed his eyes, tried to find the energy to sit up and speak. In the end, doing both things proved to be too much effort. He didn't move, "I could… I could stay here for the day and go back to the apartment tonight…Dad, you could stay with us."

The group looked around at one another, weighing how the idea settled with the others.

"It's already seven, buddy," Burt spoke up, his voice gentle, "You wanna stick around for another half hour and then head out?"

Kurt nodded. Nodding was easy. Nodding didn't require an argument.

He'd weaved his way quietly between the waiting room and Blaine's hospital room for hours that he'd given up on counting. He counted plenty of other things, though.

Forty-six chairs in the waiting room.

Thirty-seven steps to get from the waiting room to Blaine's bedside.

Thirteen Styrofoam cups of coffee turning cold wherever Kurt left them.

Five pieces of dry toast he'd dutifully swallowed down under his father's watchful gaze.

Three different nurses that came to fuss with machines.

One time the hitch in Blaine's breathing had made Kurt's heart stop.

He followed the familiar path from the waiting room to Blaine's room, took his seat beside the bed.

"Hey, you," he tried to keep his tone warm, soft.

He filled in Blaine's smile and then a puzzled frown,  _'something's different.'_

Kurt brushed a thumb over his own wrist, "I've been wearing your Dalton sweatshirt…your mom brought it for me. It still smells like you."

Blaine would nod,  _'Ah.'_

He rubbed his fingers over Blaine's knuckles, "Your hands are dry. They should really be putting some lotion on them…"

He listened to Blaine's breathing.

"They're cold, too," He wrapped Blaine's hand in both of his, "I've never gotten used to your hands being cold—they were always so warm before. Not your feet though, you've always had cold feet."

More silence.

"Remember how, after we camped out in your backyard last summer, we both fell asleep out in the grass? We got those awful sunburns and even the tops of your feet were burned, but they were  _still_  cold," Kurt closed his eyes, "That was a good day, though… one of my favorites. Yours, too, apparently. I saw it in your journal."

He opened his eyes, studied Blaine's face, "I keep trying to memorize you… I still can't remember the last time I saw my mom—the last thing I remember about her was her teaching me how to hold a teacup with my pinkie out, and its been driving me insane…"

He turned his gaze down to Blaine's too dry, too cold hand, "but maybe…maybe I don't want to remember you like this either, maybe I want to remember you sleeping with your mouth open in that tent in your backyard—can I go out of order like that?"

He filled Blaine raising his eyebrows, shrugging a little, ' _You can do whatever you want to do.'_

He nodded to himself, "Maybe I will."

He traced the sleeve of Blaine's hospital gown, rolled the thin fabric between his thumb and index finger, "I just… I keep thinking of that day. Y-you told me you had that vision of your whole life laid out—you thought—maybe you're right, maybe it's just because I want it so much, but I keep seeing that, too."

He paused, "I just…I feel like we're getting so cheated. I—I want to eat cold take out with you and dance with you and let you take me camping for real. I…I want to fight with you and make up with you and have awful days just so going home to you is even better than it is on a normal day. I want a  _life_ with you. There's so much of forever left for us, Blaine."

Blaine wouldn't know what to say to that. There was nothing Kurt could color in.

Kurt took in a breath, let it out, "I'm sorry, this isn't… this shouldn't be about me."

Another pause.

"I'm supposed to be going home tonight…could you maybe…could you try to be here when I come back tomorrow? I know I said you could—but I just—please be here in the morning," Kurt pulled Blaine hand back into his, " I… I hope you aren't hurting… I hope you're not scared. Don't be scared, alright? There's always someone in here to hold your hand. You won't be alone."

There was a soft knock from the doorway, Kurt recognized his father's voice, "Hey, bud, you about ready to go?"

Kurt pressed another kiss to Blaine's palm—like the hours, he'd lost track of the number of kisses he'd placed there—and lowered it back to the bed, "I love you."

He turned and left the room with his father.

He didn't look back.

* * *

The hours between arriving back at the apartment and the rushed trip back to the hospital all bled together.

David murmured something about more flowers—if Kurt wanted to shred them apart, they were in Dave's room.

Kurt declined the offer with a quiet plea not to see them at all.

Burt sat on the couch with him, the television off, one hand wrapped around a cup of coffee, the other around Kurt's shoulders.

At some point they had gotten out of the car—Trip had cursed the ice and the landlord who hadn't put salt down. Burt had reprimanded his language.

Carol had kissed Burt, Kurt, and Trip goodbye, told them she'd have her phone beside her all night.

At some point there had been another piece of toast shoved into his hand that he may or may not have eaten. He couldn't remember.

However the time went—if Carol said goodbye at the hospital or came along to the apartment, if he'd eaten (or not eaten) in the car or in the kitchen, if the memory of sitting on the couch with his father was old and not a part of the evening at all—all Kurt knew was that it ended in his bed, where he eventually slept, deep and hard.

He must have slept, because in order to wake up, there had to have been actual sleep…right?

He opened his eyes and stared into the dark. Something had woken him up. He rifted through his memories—he'd had no dreams; he'd slept the deep, heavy slumber of someone drugged (so it had to be real sleep, he assured himself). He checked his phone—no missed calls; no wrongly set alarm. He was just…awake. He looked again at his phone—2:57.

He got up and went to the bathroom; turned on the shower. He wasn't sure why he was awake, but he was sure he wouldn't be falling back asleep. He turned his phone up loud and left it on the floor just outside the shower before climbing in behind the curtain. He washed himself slowly; the smell of Blaine's cologne slid off his skin with the suds and swirled around his toes before disappearing down the drain. He toweled off; fixed his hair; wandered back out into his room.

He moved with all the quiet of a cat—smooth, almost choreographed movements from his vanity to his closet to his mirror. He chose his outfit on autopilot—a white, tight shirt; dark jeans; a black vest. He sat at his vanity and stared into his drawer of accessories. He pulled out a few broaches that would go with his outfit—a pretty, silver key; something with an intricate little web of chains; a black spider—he toyed with them; ran his fingers over their edges, but in the end replaced them all and rifled through the rest. He pulled out the rose gold feather.

It didn't match.

He put it on.

He tucked his phone into his pocket and sat down on the edge of the bed. For a moment, he wished he had agreed to go back to his home in Lima where Finn and Carol were. Where he could go to Finn's room and knock on the door and be greeted by a sleep mussed, confused Finn.

But it wouldn't be like in high school. Finn would probably still let him come in. He'd still sit in the chair in the corner and yawn and blink and wait for Kurt to tell him what was wrong, but it still wouldn't be the same. The room would devoid of the usual Finn mess of videogames and dirtied plates on the floor—the posters and pillows gone to his dorm room at school. The room would be different, the problems different. It would only make things worse to be back in the house where things had been so hard but so easy.

. He pushed himself up off his bed and out the door. He closed the door noiselessly and moved across the family room—a perfect ghost as he passed his sleeping father. He found himself in the kitchen. Everything was so quiet… Trip and David curled up in Dave's bed together, his father so exhausted from the past week, that Kurt could have probably slammed his door and not received a reaction. But still, he worked to not disturb those who could still sleep.

He moved automatically—pulled the coffee grounds and a filter from the pantry; plugged in the coffee pot. He listened to the hiss of the water heating and soon the familiar heady scent filled his nose. He pulled his phone from his pocket and held it limply at his side while he watched the pot fill silently. It sputtered and steamed long after it was done brewing, and Kurt remained still; closed his eyes; inhaled deeply.

He heard the groan of the wood floor and then the snap of a switch. Suddenly, the kitchen was bathed in light, "Kurt, it's three in the morning, what are you doing up?"

Kurt turned to face his father; he blinked against the sudden brightness in the room.

Burt's eyes drifted down to Kurt's hand and then quickly back up to his eyes; his face suddenly looked strained, "Did something happen?"

Kurt looked down at his phone, too. He shook his head slowly, but his heart was suddenly pounding too hard against his ribs. His movements felt…foggy.

"So what are you doing up, bud?" Burt walked over to the cupboard and pulled out two mugs. He filled them both from the pot and set them on the counter, but Kurt remained where he was.

"You wanna have a seat and talk about it?" Burt sat down and pushed the stool out beside him. He met Kurt's eyes and frowned; concern laced his voice, "Hey, Kurt, you're crying—what—"

Kurt's phone lit up in his hand; the automated notes of  _I Can't Help Falling In Love_ , soft and sweet, split the quiet of the room in half.

He answered the call and raised it to his ear with a shaky hand, "Hello?"

Burt watched him with bated breath. He tried to guess at what the person on the other side of the call was saying, but the task proved near impossible because Kurt wasn't saying anything at all. Burt settled for reading his body language, but that proved even harder. His shoulders were shaking and his face was ashy white.

"I'll be there soon." Kurt finally whispered. He lowered the phone from his ear without saying goodbye. He didn't look at Burt; he looked around the kitchen like he wasn't entirely sure where he was.

Burt Hummel was not a crier. Okay, maybe he'd gotten a little misty eyed during  _Rudy_  once, but the last time he'd really cried had been the night of his wife's funeral. He'd sat in Kurt's little twin bed with him and held him. When he'd been sure Kurt was lost to the safety of his unconscious, he had let himself cry. He'd been careful to be quiet about it. But he could still feel the lump in his throat; the sting of tears burning his eyes; Kurt's warm little body pressed close to his side and his hand wound around a handful of his shirt to assure he wouldn't lose his father to the night, too.

But now here he was, years later, and that same tightness pulled at his throat; tears slid warm and slow down his cheeks as he waited for Kurt to say something; do something, "Kurt—"

"Will you, um," Kurt still wasn't looking at him; his voice shook, "Could you d-drive me to the hospital?"

Burt got up immediately. He found the keys and one of Kurt's jackets. Kurt was standing beside the front door; he swayed on his feet as though he were near fainting.

"Here, bud, put this on," Burt quietly held out the jacket toward his son. The coat was a loud, sunny shade of yellow and Burt wished he had had the foresight to at least pick something more subdued, but it had been the first jacket-like thing he'd seen in the hall closet. It looked all wrong around Kurt—cheerful and vibrant against Kurt's shaking little frame.

He ushered him into the hall and left him outside the elevator, "I'm going to write a note for Trip and David, alright? You hang tight."

He moved back into the apartment, glancing over his shoulder twice to make sure Kurt was still there.

Once he was back inside, he searched frantically for a piece of paper. In the end, he unfolded a paper crane he found sitting on top of the refrigerator and scribbling out an explanation of their disappearance and his phone number as fast as he could. Leaving Kurt alone for too long made something anxious twist in his stomach.

But his fear was without warrant, when he got back to the hall, Kurt was still there, leaning against the wall.

Once Burt had managed to maneuver Kurt through the steps of getting on the elevator, crossing the parking lot—and god dammit, Trip was right, they really needed to put some salt down—and into car, he turned to face Kurt again, "You hanging in there, buddy?"

Kurt gave a small nod, shivered.

Burt blasted the heat—when it blew a burst of icy air into their faces, he cursed, but Kurt didn't react; didn't even flinch away.

"It'll heat up pretty quick," Burt offered only to fill the silence as he backed out of the garage and into the dark.

There was no answer from the passenger's seat.

After a few miles, the cab of the car was finally heated, but Kurt remained stoic—his face unreadable and his hands folded quietly in his lap. Burt reached over to turn on the radio and glanced at his son again to try and gauge if the sound would be considered an obstruction to whatever was passing through Kurt's head. When Kurt's eyes only remained focused straight ahead, he decided it was worth the risk.

Kurt blinked at the radio, startled for a moment from his daze, "I…"

Burt looked over at him quickly, "You what?"

Kurt closed his eyes tight, clenched his hands in his lap. Burt had to turn down the music to hear him speak, "I need…I, if I don't s-see for m-myself, it's not—it's not real. I don't…I have to see."

Burt clenched his teeth, "I'm getting you there as fast as I can, alright? I promise I'll get you there, just hold on."

When they pulled into the parking lot, Kurt didn't get out right away. He closed his eyes; folded his hands even tighter. If Burt didn't know any better, he could have sworn Kurt was praying.

Kurt opened his eyes slowly. He unbuckled his seat belt and climbed out of the car without so much as a sideways glance.

Burt followed behind him, but it became an increasingly difficult task in the icy parking lot. A fresh coat of snow was falling; silent and sparkling in the orange glow of the lights; it stuck to Kurt's hair, but he made no attempt to brush it off.

The closer Kurt got to the hospital, the faster he walked. By the time he got inside, he was stumbling up the steps in a half jog.

Burt chased after him, prepared to catch him the second he fell apart, but, despite his sudden clumsiness and shaking hands, Kurt made it all the way up.

The nurse at the front station smiled tiredly when Kurt moved past her and further down the hall.

Wait…smiled?

Burt contemplated stopping and berating her. Telling her not everyone wants a goddamn smile when they're stumbling into the hospital at three thirty in the morning, but Kurt was already at Blaine's door and Burt couldn't let himself risk not being there when he saw whatever was in the room.

He jogged the last stretch of hall, but it was too late. Kurt was inside.

He rushed through the door; breathless and a little too warm and dreading what came next.

He had known he wouldn't be able to prepare himself for a moment like this. He had known he'd never be able to wrap his head around the level of feeling this would cause. Still, what he saw in the dim light of the hospital room was not even a shadow of what he had expected, what he'd been bracing himself for for weeks.

The Anderson's were sitting in the same spot they had always occupied on the near side of the bed, their backs to Burt, their bodies huddled close together—John's arm tight around Elizabeth's shoulders and his head resting against hers.

Kurt was sobbing; hard, loud sounds that shook his entire body—he was trying to say something, but his whole body was invested in his tears and apparently had no room for words. He held one of Blaine's hands between both of his; pressed it to his chest hard as though he needed him physically close just to keep his own heart beating.

The world felt fuzzy or too slow or too something…dream like. Yes, that was it. And maybe it was a dream because this image didn't make sense; it  _couldn't_  make sense.

Burt tried to replay the past couple hours in his mind—Kurt in the kitchen with that broken, knowing look in his eyes; Kurt's hands unmoving and dead in his lap on the car ride over; tripping up the steps. The nurse smiling when she should have been crying, too...but now that didn't feel like the most incongruent piece of the story anymore—not with Kurt sobbing and the lights low and the air thick with so many feelings.

No, the strangest part was Blaine. Too small Blaine with IVs in his arms and his head still bandaged and his eyes; Oh God, his eyes…

"I'm here; I'm right here." Kurt pressed Blaine's hand to his mouth and then to his cheek. He tried to steady his breathing and still the tears. When they just kept coming, he turned his cheek closer into Blaine's palm, but he stared hard down at the boy in the bed as though looking away for even a second would mean never looking back. He let out a sound caught somewhere between a sob and a laugh and Burt realized he had indeed missed something—something that cemented the picture in place; made it real.

The hand against Kurt's cheek moved. Infinitesimal little twitches so that pads of fingers pressed in closer, tried to form to the contours of Kurt's face…no, that wasn't it. They were trying to brush away tears. The tears kept falling and the movements only made more come, but still the fingers moved in little jerks, small and careful.

Kurt let out another broken sounding laugh. Elizabeth and John kept looking between the bed and one another, but Kurt's attention never faltered.

Kurt pressed a hand tight over the top of Blaine's, the other one still curved around his wrist, holding Blaine in place, cementing him against his skin, "I'm here. I'm right here, I'm still here, we're still here—I love you, I love you, do you know how much? I love you."

Kurt kissed fingers and knuckles and every spot of skin he could, blind to where his lips fell, but not seeming to care.

Burt swallowed hard as he stepped in even closer and felt something akin to dizziness wash over him. He hooked a hand carefully over the end of the bed, a little afraid of falling.

Blaine's mouth was quiet, as was the rest of his body, but Kurt didn't seem to be paying any mind to the bed or the mouth or quiet feet and hands.

He was staring into eyes.

Wet eyes,

Tired eyes,

Muddled, confused eyes,

Eyes saying more than a mouth ever could,

Because they stared back into Kurt's.

Because they were Blaine's.

That was message enough.


	38. Tell Me We'll Never Get Used to It

Blaine slept for another two days after the first time he opened his eyes.

Kurt worked himself into a paranoid wreck despite the doctors telling him Blaine was just recovering.

Blaine woke again, though, as promised, this time blinking hazily and mumbling something about the ocean.

Kurt cried all over again and then Blaine cried too purely out of confusion.

He spent four more weeks in the hospital.

The weeks were long and nerve wracking, but slowly, progress came.

Wobbly knees turned stable for short walks down the hallway outside his room.

Slow, muddled speech turned steadier; surer.

Kurt agreed to sleep at home the fifth night after Blaine woke the second time, and, after a little coaxing and promises of tri-daily text reports, he started up his classes again.

Some things fell into place, others didn't.

Kurt's internship request for the fall was rejected, his application for the New School—filled out back in November only after Reese spent an entire day pestering him into it—came back with a 'Congratulations' letter and a host of shiny brochures.

Blaine had been more excited than Kurt was—he spent an entire day researching the school and by the time Kurt was back in the hospital, Blaine was so full of information, he'd fallen asleep.

Snow melted; grass grew.

Kurt went to class; Blaine went to treatment.

Trip spent the days running between the apartment and Warblers practice. On a rare, slow Saturday, he pushed a letter across the counter to Kurt, his cheeks red and his eyes on his coffee. He'd been accepted at Columbia.

He'd looked up again, his cheeks still pink, "Looking for another roommate?"

Days turned into a countdown toward summer and The Big Appointment.

When the day came—sunny and unseasonably hot for April—Blaine sat quietly in his doctor's office between his parents. His mother squeezed his hand so hard he thought it might break; his father kept a hand clasped tight around the back of his neck.

When the doctor delivered the news, Elizabeth had squeezed his hand even tighter; his father's hand went slack with shock. Blaine sat perfectly still while his parents laughed and cried and hugged him.

In shock, the doctor had whispered quietly to Elizabeth when Blaine had only politely smiled at the news.

I want to go home, Blaine had said, I want to see Kurt.

He delivered the news to Kurt in the kitchen, his parents having quietly excused themselves to run an unspecified errand.

"It's gone. All gone. I'm in remission."

"Gone?" Kurt had echoed; blinked.

"Gone." Blaine repeated.

They'd rushed to one another, collapsed in each other's arms and sobbed.

"Shh, it's over now. It's okay, it's over," Kurt held on tight, crying and kissing and petting Blaine's head.

"I'm alive. Oh God, I lived; I'm alive." Blaine sobbed back.

Kurt had imagined them dancing and laughing and kissing when this moment finally arrived—a bigger, brighter, better celebration than the one they'd had over his acceptance letter to the internship the previous year.

Instead, once the initial tears had dried, they sat quietly together and then cried again.

More time passed, and things got easier…and harder.

The Warblers placed second at Nationals.

Trip graduated—blushed furiously when his parents fawned over him after the ceremony and called him 'Skip' (an old pet name, his mother explained to Kurt with a smile). Kurt stowed the information away to save for good blackmail later.

People came home for the summer—demanded parties for their reunion; for Blaine's recovery; for the sake of alcohol and warm summer nights.

Trip and Santana were introduced to one another. No one knew if it was a good thing or a bad thing when they became inseparable.

In June, Quinn announced she was in at NYU. She and Blaine got close; spent hours pouring over the course catalog together.

Blaine, a little more cautious than before; a little more tentative in his actions, didn't know if he wanted to declare himself a drama major just yet. His father responded with a stack of printed Internet pages about Tisch School of the Arts and a quiet promise to be supportive of whatever he decided on.

Apartment hunts for the upcoming fall began immediately. Kurt spent hours on the phone with Rachel—still in the city—while they perused apartment listings.

At the beginning of July, Trip and David got into a fight complete with shouting and slamming doors—Kurt caught the tail end of it. Something about long distance relationships and Sebastian Smythe (a name Kurt hadn't heard brought up in months).

There was a miraculous day when Rachel called and told Kurt there was an apartment opening up across the hall from hers and Quinn's. Kurt had rejoiced with her—shrieked over their good luck and promised her a free lunch if she could secure the space by the end of the day.

Blaine had listened quietly as Kurt talked to Rachel over the phone and then to him directly—too fast and with too many details—about the apartments. He'd finished in a rush, asked Blaine why he didn't look more excited.

Blaine had stared at him for another minute and suddenly he was sobbing. He'd had a headache for three days. He couldn't remember what he ate for breakfast.

There was another tense day of testing and doctors appointments and then another day after that of relieved tears. It was nothing, just a migraine and too much anxiety.

Trip and Dave made up.

Santana and Brittany announced they were moving to California together.

The lease on the apartment in Columbus ended. Kurt and Dave spent a night eating pizza on the family room floor surrounded by boxes.

"Remember the day we moved in?" Kurt smiled, leaned back on his hands.

"I remember thinking it was never gonna work." David confessed.

"I think we did okay." Kurt smiled.

"Better than okay. "

They cheers'd plastic cups of Diet Coke and laughed.

David moved home. He was going to do a year at Ohio State and then (he and Trip would exchange a weak smile when people asked; squeeze one another's hands) who knew…he kind of was thinking a move might be nice.

Blaine sat his parents down in late July, told them he wanted to live with Kurt.

"We agreed you'd live in the dorms your first year," They said gently.

"That was last year." Blaine had replied just as calmly.

"It's a good life experience," They insisted.

"I've had a lot of life experiences in the past year," Blaine had said quietly, "If you want me to have a good life experience, please support me when I say I want to live with my boyfriend."

They'd given in.

And suddenly—the summer that had moved in ebbs and flows of good and bad—was over.

Suddenly  _Ohio_  was over—a year later than planned and not quite how they'd imagined, but over all the same.

The Andersons both cried and repeated to Blaine over and over again the address of his new doctor in the city. Made him repeat it back and show them where he'd written it down and then hugged him like they might never see him again.

Burt was calmer. He hugged Kurt fiercely, and looked near tears, but managed a smile.  _I've seen what you can do, Kurt,_ he said,  _you'll be more than okay._

Trip held onto David for so long outside the car, that they began to wonder if he'd change his mind about leaving. In the end, he did let go though, scrubbing at his eyes and staring up at David for a long minute before tucking himself into the backseat beside Blaine. He was quiet for most of the drive.

Once the skyline came into view, though, the mood shifted.

They were in New York.

They were home.

* * *

They had known the apartments were small. But somehow they seemed even smaller than Kurt had imagined—tight little boxes with low ceilings and dingy carpet.

Blaine walked into the family room, kicked his heel against the carpet, "No wood floor dancing for us."

Since they couldn't dance, Kurt settled for wrapping his arms around Blaine's middle; resting his chin on his shoulder to look out the window through a torn screen.

Blaine smiled a little, "We'll have to do something about that screen…and that front door so we don't have to body check it every time we want to get in."

Trip laughed, clearly delighted with their new space, "It's a total dive."

"Hush, it's like new shoes," Kurt sniffed, "We just need to break it in properly."

"Or like a new boyfriend." Trip added, grinning.

Trips were taken up and down the elevator; boxes were shoved up against the walls, the couch donated by Trip's parents maneuvered into the middle of the family room.

Blaine unpacked his things into a dresser that was nearly flush with the side of the bed, humming the whole time, leaning back to kiss Kurt's neck while he took over the closet.

Trip turned on music somewhere in the family room.

Blaine sat back on the bed to study himself in the mirror propped against the wall. He scrubbed a hand across his forehead, turned his fingers into his hair.

Kurt pivoted around and smacked them away, "Leave it."

Blaine jerked his chin up to look at him, surprised at the sudden intervention, but then put off, "It's laying funny."

"It is not," Kurt tucked (shoved and forced would probably be more appropriate verbs) the last of his hangers into the closet.

Blaine let out a long breath, tilted his head one way then the other to look at himself in the mirror hanging off the door. He lifted a hand again, dragged his fingers through the short waves of his hair.

Kurt grabbed hold of his wrist, "Shall I define 'leave it' for you?"

"It looks  _weird_ ," Blaine huffed, motioning his free hand over the top of his head in a way that was both vague and a full explanation.

Kurt leaned forward; pressed a kiss to the place where the short hair (longer every day, already curling again) curved off in the wrong direction, revealing a faint pink line of scar tissue, "I love it."

"Hm," Blaine grumbled, pried his hand free of Kurt's hold.

Kurt cupped his hands around Blaine's face, kissed the spot again, "I do."

Blaine tipped his head up, smiled a little, momentarily mollified, "What's left to unpack?"

"Trip is supposed to be responsible for unpacking the kitchen, so I'm assuming the entire kitchen," Kurt rolled his eyes, but then smiled, "are you done with your things?"

"For over an hour now," the corners of Blaine's mouth curved up into a teasing smile.

"Don't you dare comment on my wardrobe," Kurt picked the tape off the seam of the last of his empty boxes.

"I won't so long as you tell me again how wonderful I am for letting you have ninety percent of the closet space." Blaine folded his legs up on the bed; tucked his hands into his lap.

Kurt collapsed the box; stuffed it in beside the rest, "I negotiated that closet space with you back in Ohio, I  _earned_ it."

Blaine's smile turned crooked, his eyes bright, "Yeah, you did."

Kurt rolled his eyes and turned his attention to the final box. He sat down awkwardly on the bed, shuffled the box onto the middle of the mattress where both he and Blaine could get at it.

Blaine twisted around to face it, his smile suddenly softer, "About time, huh?"

Kurt leaned across the box, pressed a kiss to Blaine's mouth, "Finally."

They stared at one another for a moment, smiled.

Blaine had wanted to open the New York Box first.

Christen the apartment! He'd insisted.

But Kurt held firm. The New York Box would be last. After everything else had its place, they'd add the final touches that would make their too small apartment home.

Blaine had given in without another argument.

"You open it," Blaine plucked a box cutter up from beside him, offered it to Kurt.

"Are you sure?" Kurt took the blade, but his eyes stayed warily on Blaine's face, "I'll be honest—you're getting lucky tonight regardless of how nice you are to me, so…"

Blaine let out a breathy laugh, "No, I just—I'm tired, I don't trust myself with a sharp knife right now."

Blaine's hands were still nested his lap, but Kurt didn't need to see them to know the tremor in the right one was bad right now—he'd kept careful track of Blaine while they hauled boxes and furniture around the apartment; watched fatigue in his eyes and the particular way he set his jaw when he had a headache, and of course the hand. Something cut out by a scalpel or chewed up by cancer, as Trip liked to say—whatever the cause, Blaine's thumb still twitched in little jerks; like motion caught in a strobe light.

If it bothered Blaine, he never mentioned it.

Kurt slid the knife down the center seam and pried the lid open.

They both hunched forward to look inside.

Kurt pulled out the piggy bank; shook it, "Can we break into this in like half an hour please?"

"You read my mind," Blaine pulled out Kurt's prom crown; settled it on his head, "If I wear this, do you think the barista will buy that I'm royalty and give us our drinks for free?"

"Absolutely," Kurt giggled. He pulled out the jar of Lima Bean receipts; set it on their single nightstand. He leaned forward again, rifled through the contents, "I have no idea where we're going to put ninety percent of this stuff, we don't exactly have room in here for sentimental—what's this?"

Blaine looked up from the photo album in his lap, his brow knit as Kurt waved an envelope at him, "More music programs?"

Kurt turned the envelope over in his hands, felt something silvery, cold prickle at his spine, "This… this is your handwriting from when you were sick."

Blaine's head jerked back up from the pictures, his face suddenly pale, "Oh God."

Kurt was sliding a thumb down the seam of the envelope; shaking the pages loose, "What?"

"I…" Blaine closed his eyes, "I wrote it for you—right after I found out about the surgery, I—"

Kurt stared at him, "You wrote me a letter."

Blaine was pinching the bridge of his nose, "Yeah, I mean, I wrote a lot of them, but—"

Kurt swallowed hard, "…oh."

"Oh," Blaine echoed, his voice quiet, "Kurt, you don't have to read it, it's not like it matters anymore or—"

Kurt looked up, tried to keep the tremor out of his voice, "What if I want to read it?"

Blaine met his eyes, dropped his gaze again; gave a one shouldered shrug, "I don't even remember what it says, but…I wrote it for you. It's yours to read."

Kurt gave a small nod, turned his eyes back down to the paper. At first he was painfully aware of Blaine across from his—his skin prickled with Blaine's eyes focused on him hard and anxious, but soon the feeling slipped away as he began to read a shaky, too familiar scrawl of words.

_Kurt,_

_You are perfect. You are amazing. You are my everything. Is that an okay way to start a letter? I don't really know, I don't think I've ever really written a love letter—nothing more than a couple of sentences anyway. Words have never been my strong suit, and they're especially troublesome for me now, so I wanted to put out the important ones first lest they escape me later. I'll say it again: you're beautiful; you're my inspiration to be braver, to push harder; you're the most spectacular person I've ever met. I can't sing your praises enough, and there aren't enough words out there to describe what you mean to me, but I'll do my best._

_You have always been so strong, Kurt. With losing your mother; holding your head high when people were cruel; getting back up every single time someone pushed you down. You never deserved to be hurt like that—to feel that kind of heartbreak and hatred directed at you. You deserve the very best the world has to offer, and it had always been my intention to give that to you as much as I could, but I'm afraid I only added to the ugliness._

_I know what hurt looks like on your face. I know the color of your eyes when you cry and the way your jaw works when you're trying to keep all of that pain inside and the way you tip your chin up so you look angry instead of broken. And it kills me (I'm sorry for the word choice, I really am) to think I might cause that look on your face;_ __maybe I already did cause it if you're reading this letter_ _ _. But I'm not leaving you, Kurt; I won't. I know you don't believe in Heaven or an Afterlife or whatever, and I'm not asking you to. I'm just asking you to find the few good bits and pieces I left for you._

_Never forget someone loved you; someone laid awake in bed at night and thought of your smile; someone saw you as their greatest hero. Maybe you're scoffing at the notion of a few memories replacing my presence, and I won't pretend I blame you for your cynicism. I know this won't be easy for you, and I hope that doesn't sound conceited—to say I know it'll be hard on you to lose me—but I know I am as much your best friend as you are mine and it takes my breath away (don't worry, they checked my breathing at my appointment, it's fine) to think about ever having to go a day knowing you weren't somewhere in my world. But I know something else, too. Like I said before, you are so strong Kurt, stronger than anyone knows, stronger than even you know—the fact that you're reading this proves that._

_Sitting here now, imagining you in the city—whether it's next month or next year or whenever you've decided to go—I'm so ridiculously proud of you. I don't know if you'll stay there forever (I can hear Paris calling your name) and I don't know what you'll do (music? Fashion? Socialite? Political Activist Extraordinaire?), but, whatever it is, wherever it is, I do know one thing for sure: you will shine brighter than anyone else. You are so special, Kurt; you know that, right? You walk into a room and the whole place feels more alive; more…magical; electric. You are bound for greatness._

_There's something else I need you to know, too. I love you, and I know you love me, but someone as wonderful as you isn't meant to be alone. I don't know how you feel right now sitting here reading this, but I want you to know that I am positive that you will not be lonely forever. You are going to meet someone, Kurt. Someone amazing who sees how you glow; who is as blown away by your integrity and courage as much as I am every single day. Don't be afraid to love him, Kurt, and don't assume it means you're doing me some injustice by letting me go. Do you remember when you promised to never say goodbye to me? It feels like we were so young, looking back on it now, but, I know you and I know you are a man of your word, but loving someone else does not mean saying goodbye—we've been through too much together for you to simply forget me. To forget_ us _. So know you can carry me with you and still love someone else. I am insanely jealous of whoever gets to spend their forever with you, but I want nothing more than to know you're happy; to know you are still sharing your warmth and love with someone and feeling his love in return. Promise me you'll try. Promise you'll be brave and give the poor schmuck a chance._

_I wish I could say that's all I have left to say to you, but there are so many things I want to tell you but it won't all fit in a letter…Most of it can't even be confined to paper; it's just so much bigger than that, and I just wish there was more time… I hope you don't think I consider myself unlucky, because that could not be further from the truth. I have been so ridiculously blessed with all my life has offered me, and there are those out there who will live to be one hundred and never be able to claim they had even a fraction of what I did; in that regard, I have no regrets. So I'm going to end this letter here, because time really has nothing to do with it, does it? In the end, regardless of time or distance between us, the constants in my life are what have made it worthwhile._ You _have made me worthwhile, and I can never thank you enough for that. I can only hope this letter offers you something... Closure maybe? I'm not sure._

_You will always be my first love; my greatest confidant, and my very, very best friend._

_Like you for always and love you forever,_

_Blaine_

Kurt blinked hard. Read the whole thing again.

"Kurt, hey, come on," Blaine's voice was strained; nervous.

Kurt's hands shook; his shoulders shook; his everything shook and suddenly he realized he was sobbing—silent tears rolling down his cheeks hot and fast while he clutched the letter too tight in his hands.

"Kurt, please," Blaine offered a hand helplessly, "Please don't cry. This is a happy day, I hate seeing you cry like this."

Kurt looked up at him, but didn't touch him; couldn't touch him because for a moment he was prickling and stinging and  _angry_ , "W-w-why did you h-h-hide this?"

Blaine's hand was still extended out like maybe Kurt would change his mind and hold it, "Please, Kurt, it doesn't matter anymore."

"It does! It matters to  _me_!" Kurt snapped. He rubbed an arm hard across one cheek, but the tears kept coming, "You almost  _died_ , Blaine, you almost—"

"You think I don't know that?" Blaine snapped back, his hand finally falling down to his lap, "Of course I know that, Kurt, I—"

"You weren't  _there_ Blaine, you don't—" Kurt clamped his mouth shut; worked his jaw for a moment. He didn't want to be angry—he wasn't angry, not really.

The feelings were old ones for that day back in December. For that awful day in the family room with the shredded flowers when Blaine didn't die but something small and bright inside Kurt did, or he thought it did at least. He wasn't so sure.

He took a deep breath; let it out, and when he spoke again, his voice was soft, "You left me a notebook full of letters for everyone but me. You said goodbye to everyone and I got a journal with old memories and blank pages. I want to know why you'd want to hide something like this. I need to know why you'd try to trick me into believing you weren't going to say goodbye to me."

Blaine's expression softened. He looked down at his lap, "It…that day was a bad day and I had a lot of things to think about…I wrote your letter first. I made Trip hide it in the box while you were at work and made him swear not to mention it to you."

"Why?"

Blaine was still staring at his lap, "I guess I just…I couldn't do it. Even if it was just a stupid letter and I couldn't actually know you'd read it—fuck, Kurt, I thought I was going to die, and I couldn't—I could accept that, and I could let go of so much, but…not you. I wasn't ready to let go of you yet, and I just wanted to put some piece of me into your life. It was stupid—"

"That's not stupid," Kurt whispered.

Blaine offered a hand again, and this time, Kurt took it and squeezed it hard. He wrapped his other hand around the back of Blaine's neck; pressed their foreheads together.

They stared at each other, blurred and half-hidden beneath the curtain of their eyelashes.

There had been a gap between them since that week in the hospital.

They had always understood everything about each other—known about mood swings and fears and secrets; quirks and guilty pleasures and nightmares. But that week had changed things; made a jagged line of scar tissue form on their relationship that hadn't been there before.

They'd learned to work around the new discontinuity, though; figured out how to turn it less thick; how to smooth it soft and pink and almost invisible.

When Blaine got quiet and moody, his eyes focused somewhere dark and far off, Kurt would pet his hair; sing to him; talk about anything at all until Blaine could voice his fears—creeping and twisting and nightmarish.

When Kurt panicked seemingly out of nowhere—making frantic phone calls in the middle of the night just to make sure Blaine would answer; catching his breath at sudden moments when the memories hit him seemingly out of the blue; hard and brutish—Blaine offered an arm or a wrist or an open hand; let Kurt hold on; murmured quiet, sweet things until the fear passed and they could continue on.

When they both felt it, that was when things were easiest. Blaine didn't know what waiting felt like and Kurt didn't know what it was to accept that he was going to die, but they both knew fear. And they both knew the almost primal need to hold onto someone.

Kurt lingered long after his heart steadied; focused in on Blaine beneath his hands. Blaine made of skin and bones all touchable and warm and present.

Blaine's body changed everyday—got stronger, sturdier, more and less tangible.

Today the hair at the back of his neck felt longer. New curls brushing the edge of Kurt's index finger in a way he couldn't remember every feeling before and it was nice and new. And he'd never felt Blaine's hair in a cramped New York apartment where traffic noise was loud even nine floors up and the room was barely big enough to hold the bed and that was nice, too. His heart ached and twisted inexplicably.

He pressed his fingers in a little harder to make sure the moment didn't slip away before he could remember it was already sliding, evolving, fading, coming closer to ending.

Blaine held still, let Kurt hold on because he knew he needed this. He knew Kurt had scars, too.

They stared at one another, Kurt's hand curved around Blaine's neck and Blaine's thumb pressed to the line of Kurt's hip. And Blaine was  _there_. Even if Kurt never found this particular feeling ever again, there were more feelings to be had about Blaine, more lingering touches and kisses in the too small apartment.

Kurt gave a tiny nod, and Blaine finally pushed in even closer, wrapped both arms around Kurt's middle and nested his face into his shoulder where "I love you" got muffled, hot and damp against Kurt's shirt.

Kurt's hand found a new perch at the back of Blaine's head, the other on his shoulder, "Your hair is getting so long."

Blaine tipped his head up, his chin digging into Kurt's collarbone and a smile pulling at his mouth, "It's still short."

"But it keeps growing," Kurt smiled. He couldn't quite get his fingers to tangle in it, but he could get a few locks to curl around his fingers.

"It keeps growing." Blaine agreed, but then his face was hidden back in the curve of Kurt's neck.

Kurt teased the curls softly; rubbed his free hand down Blaine's back, "And you're getting so strong again—I know you probably think it's from gym time with the boys, but I am holding to the belief that it's from going to those yoga classes with me. Especially your back and shoulders, do you have any idea how good yoga is for that?"

"Can we throw away the letter?" Blaine's voice was muffled in Kurt's shirt.

Kurt's hands stilled, "Why?"

Blaine let out a long breath and finally pulled his face back away from Kurt's body, but he remained stoic; silent.

"Blaine," Kurt pressed his fingers in a little harder against his scalp, "why?"

Blaine stared down at his hand. He flexed it. Opened, closed, opened, closed, "I know I'm supposed to feel like I learned some big lesson about how precious life is, and I should be extra grateful…but mostly it just pisses me off because I don't want that. I want to be reckless. I want to make stupid mistakes and fight with you over stupid things. I want to completely take life for granted and…and be stupid."

Kurt watched his face. Watched his shoulders hunch in a little closer, watched the tension lines on his forehead and around his mouth draw a little tighter; twitch, "You want to pretend it never happened."

"No," Blaine shook his head, raised his eyes to meet Kurt's. They were still too big in his too thin face and it stirred something painful in Kurt's stomach, "No, I don't want that—it happened, there's no pretending it didn't—I just don't want it to define me. To define  _us_. I want us to be the same stupid kids we were last summer…I thought we were so experienced, too, ya know? We had demons and this… this  _stuff_ in our pasts. But none of that—it hurt and it was awful—but it didn't almost kill us."

Kurt's hand slipped down to Blaine's knee, "This didn't kill you either."

"What if it comes back?" Blaine closed his hand around Kurt's, "What then?"

It was a question they kept asking like maybe one of them might suddenly know how to respond. It was a question they both knew they'd _keep_ asking each other.

There hadn't been an answer in Ohio.

There still wasn't an answer in New York.

"Then we deal with it," Kurt squeezed Blaine's knee a little tighter.

 

It was the settled upon standard answer to end the conversation.

They would let it go for awhile; worry it like a sore in their mouths until it was painful enough to come up again.

They were getting better though, fussing over it less; letting it heal a little more before prodding at it once more.

They both fell silent for a beat, lost to their own thoughts.

 

They were both quiet again.

Blaine let out a long breath and finally broke the quiet, "I'm sorry. I know this isn't how you imagined move in day going."

"It's fine," Kurt shrugged; smiled a little, "I doubt you planned for it to go this way either."

Blaine wrapped Kurt's hand between both of his, "Can I rewind and put the letter back in the notebook?"

Kurt closed his eyes; shoved himself closer until Blaine's arms were wrapped around him, "Please don't ever make me relive that week."

Blaine pressed a kiss to the top of his head; squeezed him tight, "I'll do my best."

Once again, they lapsed into silence, both listening to the music on the other side of the door and quiet footsteps from the floor above them.

"What're you thinking about?" Kurt murmured.

"That your hair is sweaty and how to best negotiate a shower with you right now."

Kurt smacked his hand against Blaine's arm, "Rude!"

"You asked," Blaine laughed quietly; squeezed Kurt in even closer, "What were  _you_ thinking about?"

Kurt's mouth curved into a smile. He pushed his way out of Blaine's embrace, "Wait here, okay?"

Blaine flopped back on the bed, "Where are you going?"

Kurt offered a coy smile as he slipped out the door, "You'll see."

Trip was seated cross-legged on the kitchen table, a chopstick tucked behind one ear, "I think everything grew on the drive here…or multiplied. The plates fucked like bunnies for the whole ride and now there are so many that they don't fit in the cabinets."

"It's a smaller space, we'll adjust," Kurt breezed past him to the fridge and peered inside, sighing when he remembered they didn't have groceries yet.

"Barbra has food," Trip fished a newspaper wrapped something out of the box in front of him, worked at freeing it from the covering.

"Who?" Kurt blinked.

Trip nodded toward the open front door, "Jewish friend, little body, big voice—you know the one."

Kurt snorted, "Don't call her that to her face, her ego will take up the entire family room."

"Not that impressive considering the size of the family room." Trip grinned, finally freeing a coffee mug from the newspaper.

Kurt ignored him and breezed across the hall, "I'm stealing something from you."

Rachel swatted wordlessly at him when he stuck his head in the fridge.

Kurt pulled what he was looking for off of a shelf and ducked out of the way of her still flailing hand, "I'll replace it, I promise."

Her phone was tucked between her shoulder and ear. She gave a wordless shooing gesture and swatted at Kurt again.

"New York Rachel is a new brand of crazy," Kurt muttered, loud enough for her to hear as he made his way back across the hall.

She slammed the door behind him in response.

"Food play?" Trip called, raising an eyebrow as Kurt strode purposefully back toward the bedroom.

"Mind your own business,  _Skip,_ " Kurt laughed even when a crumpled piece of newspaper hit him hard between the shoulder blades.

Blaine was still stretched out on the bed; the letter folded neatly in his hands. He pushed himself up on his elbows to frown at Kurt, "What's that?"

"Orange juice," Kurt unscrewed the lid and took a drink from the carton.

It was acidic and pulpy against his tongue, but he swallowed it down anyway.

Blaine watched him, his expression suddenly soft.

Kurt transferred the carton over to Blaine's lap; pulled the letter from his hands and set to work molding it into intricate little folds, "I want to study all night for exams with you."

Blaine's mouth curved into a smile, recognizing the game. He took a drink from the carton; winced and recapped it to drop down beside the bed, "I want to eat cold take out with you when we have no groceries."

Kurt smoothed a crease in the paper, "I want to fight with you over whose turn it is to kill spiders."

"I want to try out ten thousand coffee shops with you."

"I want to yell at you to get a haircut when your hair is longer than Trip's."

"I want to find a way to insulate our walls before David comes to visit."

"I want to find out how loud we can be before the neighbors get upset." Kurt giggled.

Blaine slotted himself a little closer to Kurt's side, "I want to cross off our entire bucket list and start a whole new one."

Kurt held up the finished paper crane in his hands to Blaine's mouth, "Blow in that little hole on the bottom."

"Sounds erotic."

Kurt snorted, "Pick your favorite 'I want' to wish for then blow in the damn crane. It's good luck."

"Really?"

"I just decided it was, now do it," Kurt insisted.

Blaine did as he was told until the body of the crane crinkled and inflated.

"Thank you," Kurt leaned over him to deposit it on the nightstand beside the jar of receipts.

Blaine wrapped an arm around him; stroked a hand down his spine, "I want to live in this bed."

Kurt smiled and rolled back off of Blaine to stare up at the ceiling, "I'll see if we can get takeout delivered straight to the bedroom door."

Blaine twisted onto his side, "Ya know what?"

"What?" Kurt turned his head toward the closet; surveyed the too full closet and wondered if maybe he should part with a few of his older items of clothes.

"From now on it won't be me sleeping your bed or you sleeping my bed…it'll be _us_ sleeping in _our_ bed."

Kurt looked back at Blaine, his heart suddenly aching.

Blaine was looking at him in that particular way; his eyes impossibly warm, his smile almost shy.

Kurt couldn't have resisted kissed him if he tried. Not that he was trying. Not that he would ever try.

They were in New York. Their whole life was starting. He could kiss Blaine whenever he wanted, and dammit, he was going to kiss him all the time.

Blaine pulled away first but only to press another kiss to each corner of Kurt's mouth; his nose; his forehead.

Kurt hummed contentedly, "Our bed."

"Our bed," Blaine echoed, nuzzled his forehead against Kurt's.

"You better be willing to have a loose definition of our," Trip strode through the doorway and wormed his way between them, a bottle of champagne hugged tight to his chest, "I'm lonely already, and Blaine implied a threesome once upon a time that I still think we should consider."

Kurt elbowed him hard in the side, but slid over another inch to make room, "Negotiate the threesome with your boyfriend."

"We'll turn on Skype so he can play, too."

"Would that be a foursome or a threesome with a voyeuristic twist?" Blaine frowned.

"It's—"

"It's disgusting and something we're no longer discussing, now drop it." Kurt lashed out at Trip again, this time smacking a hand down on his chest.

Trip recoiled toward Blaine, "Do you see how he treats me? This is abuse, this is a  _hate crime_."

"You're right, I hate you." Kurt grumbled, shoving himself up until he could lean back against the wall

"You love me," Trip grinned and pushed himself up, too.

"He loves me more," Blaine added.

Kurt sighed, tilted his head down onto Trip's shoulder, "Unfortunately, you're both right."

"Call your women in here," Trip lifted the bottle in his hands toward Kurt, "I have something for us a hell of a lot better than the orange juice you guys are nursing."

"QUINN! RACHEL! COME OVER HERE!" Blaine shouted.

Trip knocked the bottle against the side of Blaine's head, "Jesus Christ, Blaine, you're going to make us all deaf."

Blaine yelped; glowered, "Watch it! You're messing with the skull of a medical miracle."

"If you remind us again about your 'minor medical miracle' status, The only thing miraculous about you will be the fact that your death looked like an accident," Trip rolled his eyes but patted the wounded spot on the side of Blaine's head.

"Lets kick him out, can we still do that?" Blaine shoved himself upright to glare at Trip.

"We need him; his parents contributed most of our furniture and half of our rent," Kurt sighed.

Trip grinned at Blaine, "You're stuck with me."

Blaine opened his mouth to reply, but then his attention was on fast footsteps pounding across the hall.

Rachel and Quinn were suddenly in the doorway, flushed and breathless, "What? What's wrong? Blaine if you're not feeling well, your parents gave me the address and phone number for that doctor and I've already looked up where the nearest emergency—"

"What? No! I'm fine!" Blaine blinked at Rachel in alarm, "Healthy, remember? Jeez."

Rachel closed her eyes for a moment; opened them again, "Thank God, I thought…Never mind, it doesn't matter."

Quinn looked irritated, "If none of you are dying, then what do you want?"

Trip shook the bottle, "A toast, ladies, to christen the new place."

Quinn smiled and smoothed her skirt to take a seat at the end of the bed, but Rachel looked upset, "I was going to plan a speech! There hasn't been time though, I've been prepping for a new audition and I just didn't want to be in the headspace of a nostalgic, personal place for that kind of speech writing while I was—"

"Relax, you can do the speech another day," Blaine stretched out a foot and nudged her leg, "Sit down."

Trip waited until Rachel had finally settled down beside Quinn before raising the bottle, "Alright, kids, we all went to kindergarten once, go around the circle and offer your piece to the toast."

"To fresh paint on the walls," Blaine smiled over at Kurt.

"To medical miracles," Kurt reached across Trip to squeeze Blaine's hand.

"I'm going to vomit," Trip mumbled.

"To fresh starts," Quinn added.

"To us inevitably making a mark on this city," Rachel nudged Kurt's foot with her own.

Trip slid a thumb under the cork, "To living fast and—"

"Trip!" Blaine flinched, "Not appropriate."

"Would you let me finish, asshole?" Trip smiled at him, "To living fast and living well."

The cork ricocheted off the ceiling. The girls screamed. Kurt yelped over the champagne spilling onto the mattress. Trip and Blaine laughed.

They sat in a circle and passed the bottle around until Rachel and Quinn got worried about the apartment door they'd left standing wide open and disappeared to ensure no one had taken the opportunity to sneak in.

Trip disappeared soon after them when his phone lit up with a call and his face lit up with it. He shoved the champagne bottle into Blaine's hands and quickly disappeared out of the room, the phone already tucked between his shoulder and ear, "Hey, you, miss me yet? We were just—"

Kurt listened to Trip's door clicking shut. He smiled; shook his head, "I give it five months before David finds a way to move out here, too. It's going to get crowded in here fast."

"I don't mind crowded." Blaine smiled, slid in closer to Kurt.

Kurt glanced up at the ceiling fan and wrinkled his nose, "We really need to do some cleaning in here."

"We will."

"And I know you were being cutesy about the paint, but we really should talk to the landlord about what colors we can use."

"We can."

"And at some point we need to get to some sort of grocery store. Where do you even buy groceries in the city? Do we go to little corner markets or do we have to drive out to the suburbs and seek out a Copps or—"

Blaine laughed, "We can go. We can do all of that."

"And we both need to go get books for classes and my dad made me swear to get some sort of extra lock for the door, so we'll need to get to a hardware store, too, and we should probably—"

"Kurt," Blaine laughed again, "Calm down."

Kurt sighed, "We just have a lot to do before classes start."

Blaine squeezed his knee, "We have time."

 _We have time._ It was a joke between all of them now—a bitter joke, but a joke nonetheless, said with eyes that flickered to meet for a brief moment of shared understanding, and a grim smile that doesn't reach anyone's eyes. Rachel and Quinn don't totally get it, but they recognize the rudimentary edges, they know well enough to know the words are as much a warning as they are a laugh. Because yes, they had time, but how much nobody knew.

And maybe it was a tragedy, losing that sense of a forever that was completely infinite, but they still couldn't help but tease it; taunt that inevitable end like it might some how miss them entirely. They were young, after all, and no matter how macabre the wound on their memories or how close they'd come to the murky edge of the end of the world, there was still some part—perhaps it was built into their chemistry—that refused to believe they were not in some ways invincible.

Blaine lifted the bottle in offering, "To being young forever."

Kurt took the bottle; his cool fingers tangling with Blaine's warm ones for a moment. He tipped it to his mouth before offering it back to Blaine, "To us."

Blaine didn't take the bottle.

He curved his hands around Kurt's face, pressed their lips close.

Blaine's mouth was warm and soft, a little salty with sweat and still crackling with strawberry flavored champagne.

Kurt pressed in closer; lost himself in it.

It tasted like Blaine.

It tasted like forever.

_Fin_


End file.
